


An Introduction to Consumption

by lestvt



Series: Intercourse With the Vampire [4]
Category: Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice
Genre: (or w/e the vampire equivalent is), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Blood Drinking, Canon-Typical Violence, Dubious Consent, Eating Disorders, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Set during IWTV, and lestat is a manipulative fuckboi who only cares about getting his dick wet, descriptions of anxiety/panic attacks, tl;dr after becoming a vampire louis loses what was left of his mind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-06-27 18:14:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 26,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15690726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lestvt/pseuds/lestvt
Summary: -Subsequent to making a monster of him, Lestat decides to put Louis in his bed.In his starved anxiety, Louis inadvertently assists.(WARNING: Results may vary)





	1. Step 1: Forget

**Author's Note:**

  * For [13_bels](https://archiveofourown.org/users/13_bels/gifts).



> This fic is a gift for my lovely friend, Isabel, who you can find as @princelesthottie on tumblr!
> 
> It's also part of an art trade! <333 You can see Isabel's gift to me here!: http://princelesthottie.tumblr.com/post/176333579372/so-its-a-bit-overdue-imo-and-there-were-a-lot
> 
> And finally, are you looking for background music to help enhance your reading experience? Well, here's my suggestion! - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wygy721nzRc&t=8s&ab_channel=HALIDONMUSIC 
> 
> That's it for the time being.  
> Happy reading~

_“Sweet, pious child_  
_lover of the day,_  
_you were born to consume_  
_and to be consumed_  
_There never was  
_ _a more sacred way”_

[…]

It started as a whim. Something vague, which he was not really prone to, that appeared on the first night. Not a revelation or enlightenment or some holy vision from an angel of God. No. Just a thought, a simple thought that prompts a simple action. Or inaction, in his case. Because that’s all it was ever meant to remain. A whim.

 

 _“…saith the Lord, turn ye even to me with all your heart,  
_ _and with fasting, and with weeping, and with mourning…”_

 

But as whims tend to be, this imp was greedy and porous, and without pause it drank from the well that had been steadily depleting since the night of his birth, taking frivolous mouthfuls of that spoiled nectar sitting shallow and stale at the bottom. In the shadows it shifted sporadically about the pool. The thing was bloating its cheeks, unworried, but hurried, letting it slipped passed its lips, down its chest. In between swallows it laughed and smiled and kissed his face.

A sad thing, really, the visage of an innocent in all except soul. It would’ve had him convinced if not for the pitch black of those eyes – the tell of malevolent energy – the scream of spiritual deceit.

However, as its resolve grew, so did his need. And the first night seemed but a blissful dream in the wake of it, a call to forget. He barely answered that call, a trembling voice, bodiless, but sick enough not to resist. For the mud of the pit was slowly beginning to dry. Once more, time began to exist. It came with a bell, which signaled the union or departure of souls.       

So, then there was a moment when he thought he could outwit “it,” fleeting though it may have been. When a sudden childish certainty shone through, which was also so unlike him. And even before that, there was a moment when he thought he could see beyond the physical. And though the rat was still a rat, its worth was somehow worthless to him. But unparalleled, for he felt quite the same – lowly, fearful, and easily trapped. And there was divine insignificance in that vision, a thoughtless, present kind of peace in the utter lack of reason.

In a flash he saw through red, searching eyes the world as it truly was, meaningless and chaotic and extraordinary all at the same time, and he felt the chill of its incomprehensible vastness sparking the will to live against all logic, even as he was surely doomed. Because he was. One day he would be sent adrift again, whether by drowning, or disease, or cat, or boot, or starvation. That was for certain. He was close to the ground, after all, and that ill, inescapable death.  

But even so, he knew the rat would never willingly starve. If you present it with food, it will eat. And if their positions were to switch, he now would be the tiny, shriveled corpse swept into the gutter by the rain. And not by a predilection for pain. By that imp.

He knew that, knew it was unfair even as he became himself again. Returned to that world, he unfolded his fingers to watch the rat scuttle off into darkness. It stopped, however, looking back at him with those glowing crimson marbles for eyes, too aware, all but evaluating. And when he saw the will, he also knew:

 _The rat would gladly play the wretch, for it is no great loss to be as one already is._    

But that didn’t matter to him now, because to suffer in mercy simply felt right. And he thought perhaps therein lay the key – that divorce from the limit – that chance by separation. And if allowed, in forgiving time he would be consumed by “it,” surely, and finally free to face it head on. For he wanted to so dreadfully, and in doing so to then understand. Just as he wished to find that peace and keep with it once and for all. Truly, he did.  

The trouble being, he didn’t know what exactly “it” was anymore.

Come to think of it, he never had.   

 

[…]

As he awoke, the first thing he knew was the air: that it was musty and muggy with the scent of water, resting like a heavy quilt atop his shoulders. He even tasted it as he swept his tongue passed the seam of his lips, absorbing the dust and salt that settled there. It left a light powder.

Then he felt it, the stiff angles of his arms and shoulders held too close to his sides, the hard press of nicely padded wood on his back, and that unnatural stillness in everything, which at the same time was the discombobulating spin of the Earth. And that place he was supposedly a part of, or what he could perceive of it at least, was so enhanced to him, in such all-inclusive movement, that he thought it must be fake. And, in the worst possible way, he didn’t know what was up or down.

Not to mention the voices. The countless voices doing nothing to aid him. Just to rile – that was their purpose. And more and more were roaring into existence with every passing moment, real, and alive, and beloved, off in some distant place he could not remember the name of. One he’d never reach. Or had no desire to, perhaps. He could not be sure.       

For then there was also a hunger – this terrible, tortuous hunger that grandly eclipsed all else.  And the feeling of loss that followed, married to it, that made him wonder.    

_Where am I?_

In uncanny awareness, he attempted to open his eyes, but only managed to furrow his brow further instead. Everything felt too tight, too frozen and taut. Once more should do the trick though, he surmised, and so he focused on the muscles of his face, searching for that typical warmth, that instinctual control. This time he was sure of his success – sure he would see something besides blindness – heaven, hell, or the mosquito netting over his bed. Even the gutter would do. _Anything. Dear God, please!_ He opened his eyes this time – he knew he did!

But no. Pitch black. Cold darkness. Nothing there.  Nothing seen.

 _A dream… I must still be dreaming_ , was what he wanted to think, for there was comfort in that. But there was also an assuredness within him which told him otherwise, foreboding, but right as a rat. And when he tried and failed to wake again, a pulse rang through his head. Then a familiar ache began blooming in his chest: frigid emptiness, like loneliness, hollow and resonating alongside the hunger: a rush of old, irrational fear.

He gasped and unwound his arms, pressing at the walls of his prison, digging in with his nails to scar up their smooth perfection, and feeling, in his strain, the sinkhole begin to grow. He shook and pounded against the top, needing to move it to ease the pain twisting his core, the tightness rapidly forming in his throat like it had the rest of his body. Only he wasn’t strong enough – he’d probably suffocate like this, or starve – and he was about to spit up what might’ve been a wretched wail, when...

_BANG!_

It came from below (or was that above?) and upset the foundation of his cell.

Struck still by the sound, he stared into the void before him, listening for anything more than the hardened beat of his own treacherous heart. What could it be? _Who_ could it be? But the tension only mounted in the silence of his mind. And his nails tore further into the satin lined walls of his cell, a minute comfort until he recalled just what that material meant.   

 _God, get me out of here!_ _Please!_ he prayed. _What do I do?_ _Something_ – _there must be something I can do to wake from this!_

Suddenly, the floorboards complained in short, high-pitched drawls. And a new sound followed, a _thump, thump, thump_ drawing ever closer. Ever deliberate. And his prayers came to an end.

 _Footsteps_ , he realized.  Someone – some _thing_ was coming. Louder and louder, though unhurried and elegant, like cool wind in spring. It warned of a hurricane on the horizon, made him nearly lust after the humid nothingness from which he’d come.

_Thump, thump, thump, thump..._

It was in the room with him now.       

Despite the unyielding darkness, a draft brushed by. From where? He did not know. But it caused his hair to unsettle against his cheek, a tickle like the caress of a spider’s legs in bed. And it startled him. So much so, in fact, that he jolted forward, causing an obvious noise against the wooden floor. Followed by a daunting quiet.

 _Why did it stop? Where did it go?_ He could not bear the anticipation. There was too much uncertainty here – too much he couldn’t know!  

Finally, however, there came a soft tap on the wall near his head. Not a knock meant to be answered, but the subtle sounds of fingers gliding across a smooth, hard surface. Then a grinding movement – he was tossed to the side – and a new, heavier vibration.

And just like that he could see again! His eyes had been open after all! A sliver of amber light was the thing to show him, slipping through the darkness with the grace of a ribbon in the ocean breeze. The familiar dance of candle flames _,_ that’s what it was, as they cast deforming shadows across the inside of his… _prison?_

But oh, that’s right. Not so. Not quite. No bars or locks here. Was he a prisoner? Yes. But of a different kind – not of metal and stone, but of deceit. He remembered it now. He’d “awoken” fully with the help of his vision. He’d recognized the structure of his “bed.” And even if he hadn’t, the sight of the monster pushing back the lid… well, that surely would’ve sparked his memory. Or, at the very least, the sound of its grating voice.  

“My God, Louis! You _still_ haven’t risen?!”

Louis sat up and rubbed his temple out of habit, eyes down on his lap. He found he was missing the silence all of the sudden, dreaded though it had been. Lestat was still talking.  

“How long were you planning to lie there like that, hm? You’ve nearly gone and wasted the entire night! Come now, you must be starving.” He laughed. “Can’t imagine the rats did much to quench you before.” Then he held out a hand, an offering under Louis’s nose. And oh, what a gesture it was. How it spoke volumes.

Louis stared at it. Then the floor.

Predictably, Lestat’s brow furrowed. The corners of his mouth twitched and he let out a sort of growl as he grasped Louis’s upper arm, tugging him with an unreasonable strength from his coffin and essentially lifting him to his feet.  

“You’re being uselessly stubborn,” he berated, shoulders hiked up. “It’ll be six nights now – six _consecutive_ nights. At this point it must torture you a great deal, and do not try and tell me otherwise.  You cannot lie to me.”  

Louis shook him off. Tried for a dry laugh, but let out a scoff instead.

“Why not? Can you read my mind?” Not that Lestat would tell him if he could.

“I haven’t the need,” Lestat declared. Then smiled. “There’s much you still don’t know. Now, come, my friend, hunt with me. We’ll go into New Orleans.” And offered his hand again.     

But Louis was sickened by him – _“my friend”?_ They were not friends, closer to captor and captive more like – and the word “hunt” in particular made him physically ill. He couldn’t bring himself to say it, let alone partake; it left a bad taste in his mouth.

No. He wouldn’t. Hadn’t since…   

Louis brushed by Lestat and stood at the other end of the room, clutching the frame of the door for support. Every night “since,” the sinking feeling inside of him had seemed to quicken and invert, but always failed to reach its pique. And it was a heady experience, that escalation, Louis admitted to none. At this point he couldn’t even quite control his legs properly, he was so fatigued. But in his eyes that was inconsequential, much more so than the life of a rat. A temporary state between dirt and whatever else there was. And it was fine. It was just.

“I’m in no mood,” so he said. Because it was the truth.    

“How many times must I tell you? It will improve your mood!” Lestat closed the distance between them as he spoke, gesturing emphatically. “Not to mention mine!”

Louis whipped around. “Go then! You hold all the knowledge, do you not? What need would you have of me?”

“None! Absolutely none!” Lestat snapped back, shifting from imploring to violent just like that. “I have no need of anyone, let alone a sniveling weakling like you! Just look at you!” A huff. “It is _you_ who needs _me_ , Louis! And don’t you dare forget it!”  

But Louis wasn’t buying that for a second. And he watched Lestat coldly, quietly, conveying this sentiment through gaze alone. Or so he hoped; as it were, he didn’t quite have the wherewithal to argue anymore.      

Lestat narrowed his eyes in return.  “If you had your way what would you do?” he spat. “What is it you truly wish for? To wallow? To starve? _To leave?!_ Well, you can’t! Accept it, Louis! You can no longer exist without me, and the you who would try is nothing more than ash in the gutter!”   

“But if I were to offer you money…”

Lestat threw up his hands, emitting a gravelly bellow. “Ha! This again? You haven’t listened to a word I’ve been saying, have you? Fine, go hungry for all I care! I’ll leave you to it! But you’ll find none of the peace you seek in starvation, believe me! You’re fasting for the same God who’s forsaken you! And once you’re nothing but a husk of yourself, alone and desperate for blood, then you’ll finally realize I was all you had left!”      

“And if I don’t?” Louis asked, looking to his coffin. “If I find I want nothing?”

“Then you’ll have it!”

Louis wavered momentarily at that. His mouth opened as if to speak, but no words came forth, because why should he question someone without any reason, let alone reasons? He closed it.

But still, he too wondered what it was he truly wanted. In that moment, for instance, nothing sounded better than the cold bliss of sleep. But would darkness, in all actuality, be enough? And if not, and death was the next step, then where was he now? Some sort of limbo? Was he really the unlucky one for having not been born a rat?

It was then that the possibility struck him, though not for the first time, that the void might, in fact, be worse. And he was not sure how to cope with that notion. So, he swallowed air. He bit his tongue. He did nothing.  

But Lestat could never accept that, could never “do nothing.” He was a man of action. And seeming to take Louis’s silence for an answer, he chose his action and stormed out the room, cursing colorfully as he went.

Louis wasn’t sure how he was supposed to feel. But he watched Lestat ride off towards New Orleans from the balcony not long after, wholeheartedly trying to savor that specific moment with all that he was. Trying with every heightened sense to relish the wind on his cheeks, the scent of soil and sweat and swamp in his nose, and the soft light of the stars and moon illuminating yet another tortured scene from overhead. A brief flicker of time cast in a pretty silver lining, already out of reach as Lestat blinked out of existence, over the horizon. And too, trying to trace that lining – to be entertained by it, or saddened, or angered, or _anything._

_A reason to remain. That’s all. Please._

Alas, he felt only numbness. Empty, spinning numbness. Then hunger. Then fear.

And, _No,_ Louis decided. _Nothing could be worse than this._

 

[…]

 

The wind had taken an ominous turn by the time Lestat rode back onto the grounds of Pointe du Lac that same evening. And he sought Louis out instantly and enthusiastically upon dismounting his horse, appearing in the room with an almost childlike gleam in his eye.

Evidently, murder really _had_ improved his mood.

As if in testament to this, Lestat moved swiftly about the space, laughing and lighting every candle he could reach. Then, when he was satisfied, body sufficiently illuminated, he sank into the sofa right up against Louis’s side.

He radiated stolen warmth. Louis, who had been unbearably cold for nights now, was nearly tempted to plead him closer for it too, to embrace him and beg to share in that glorious heat. But the desire vanished as quickly as it had come. And he was left only with Lestat’s pitying expression invading his sight and his arm creeping up around his shoulders, poised atop the back of the sofa.

There was the sense of a hand hovering there, hesitating near Louis’s head, and the slight sound of textured fingers moving back and forth against each other over and over again – the dry drag of newly replenished flesh. A simple sound, but Louis found it evermore mesmerizing. Especially so, when he saw it in the corner of his eye. He glanced up from his book for half a second, unwittingly drawn to the movement. Deep down, he didn’t want to turn away.    

Lestat followed his gaze, but when Louis looked back at his book, he did not move. Instead, he dropped his arm and kept staring at that spot. Quiet. Dangerously quiet.

With a shock, Louis realized what he was doing.

_He wants to touch my hair..._

“What?” he asked, curt, unable to withstand the tension once the thought had struck him. It came out markedly harsh. 

Lestat smiled back. “I know I haven’t been particularly… sympathetic as of late,” he began, the dark timber in his voice, that kindling on fire, all too tempting for comfort. Smoldering, really.  

Louis turned the page despite having not read a thing.  

“’As of late?’”  

Of course, Lestat glared at him for that. But he seemed to think better of it, because his expression relaxed into something a bit more appealing. Welcoming even. And it was objectively nice to look at, sure. However, this was but a shadow of the dazzling creature a mortal Louis had first laid eyes upon. The one he hadn’t seen since. And what a joke that was when he thought on it now.  

“Now, now,” soothed Lestat, “there’s no need for nastiness. I’ve merely come to talk, that’s all. I wish to make amends.”

“I have nothing to say to you,” Louis told him. He turned another page.    

“Then say nothing. All you have to do is listen for once.”        

Really, Louis wanted to tell him off for that, but he was conflicted. This was it, after all, everything he had. Everything he knew. So, he wanted to be hopeful, for he’d often longed for openness. Only, never quite so utterly before, never quite so desperately. And Lestat had never been so close. At least not like this. And not while he smelled so strongly of blood and flesh and man, radiating that beguiling warmth – every sin Louis would deny himself – and sounding so much like a need.

Suddenly, Louis felt fingers in his hair, a tight pull and tickle on his scalp. He shivered and looked, aghast, at Lestat.         

“It pains me to see you suffer so,” Lestat whispered, stroking him behind the ear as one might dote on a beloved housecat. Then his other hand rose up, a palm to his cheek, and he traced the bone with his thumb. “You must allow me to help you, _mon chéri_ , to help us both.”

Louis’s eyes dropped down to Lestat’s mouth as he spoke, transfixed by the subtle twitch of that damp, pink flesh. He felt himself drifting.

But Lestat didn’t seem as though he needed help with his suffering, Louis thought. To the contrary, in fact, he seemed enraptured by it. And it made him strangely envious, but appalled and breathless all the same. Lestat's voice hovered in the background, but Louis couldn't listen. He was too busy being angry and confused and dropping again, begrudging a locked door like a child in exile from his father’s study…

 _That’s right… a forbidden study._ (He hadn’t thought of it in years – more distant now with the added corruption. But he could still see it perfectly in his mind’s eye. He _wanted_ to see it even. To be able to touch it again, not as it was in the moment, but as it was then. And he nearly did. Nearly blew the dust away. Not even nearly, in fact. He lifted it into his hands. Nothing physical prevented him.)   

 

Or that same child watching his father write and read and rule his domain, and wanting to mimic him, but knowing not the letters to make up the words. Knowing not the words to ask. Feeling like he was looking through a tunnel. Then peaking  through a crack to see that intimidating figure stalk stoically down the hall, key in hand, far above and behind a daunting door, and secured in shutting out the sounds of a haggard cough. Wondering why the future felt so far away all of the sudden, so untouchable that tears sprung from his eyes, and his mother had to hold and console him, and humor him by asking why he cried.

And he hadn’t even answered. Wouldn’t, really, in that ignorant, youthful way. For then he’d had nothing before – no answers. But, at least with this, a possession was within his grasp. He had something now – something like it! And in his tiny fist appeared a shiny, silver key.

And then he was falling.

 

 “–ouis... can you hear me? Louis!”  

With his name, Louis hit the ground and returned from that distant place he hadn’t known he’d wandered to. Though persistent shadows hung like a frame of darkness around his vision even now, and his body was suddenly made of real marble, unmoving and sunken into his seat with an inexorable force. Something cold, like ice, was cutting through his veins and throat. More of the same.  

But he was on his back on the sofa, and Lestat’s eyes were wide with bewilderment when Louis looked up to him – not the same – hanging above with his mouth cracked open, unconsciously bearing the sharpness of his teeth.

“Where did you go just now?” he wondered grimly, his hand tight on Louis’s neck.

“What…?” He brushed it off. “Nowhere.”

Lestat laughed, incredulous, and frowned. Lines formed on his face, sudden and white like magnolias in April. Then he sighed and shook his head.  

“It certainly wasn't here,” he said. “Look, you must drink something. If only a rat.”  

Louis tried to push him away. “Tried” being the imperative word.

“No.”

 “You must, Louis, you’re weaker than ever. I know it's hard for you to do so, but you must try and think rationally about this; if another vampire were to come here it could do whatever it wished with you, and I promise, it wouldn’t be nearly as kind as I’ve been.” With this Lestat grinned and once again weaved his fingers through Louis’s hair. “See? You have not even the strength to reject me.”  

“But I will not take a life,” Louis bit out, each syllable a struggle of its own. “I won't. I can’t.” 

“You can, you pathetic fool. You already _have_.” Lestat released him and discarded his coat to the sofa’s far end, his actions confusing, and his gentle tone in odd juxtaposition with his words. “Only your stubbornness prevents you from doing so, and that’s why you’ll be well and truly damned when I’m finally fed up with all this nonsense. But for the time being…” Then his hand was at Louis’s nape. And in leisurely movements he tugged his own collar down and gently guided him to his throat. “Consider this a luxury.”

Louis shuddered, reminded by contact of that raging hunger, which had all but vanished in the numbness of the last few hours, reduced to a quiet buzz in the back of his throat. And it was not the low intimate voice Lestat used as much as the feel of him that did it; his strong, unyielding grip, his solid chest beneath the press of Louis’s hand, reminiscent of the kill.

He was helpless against it. He breathed that earthy scent and leaned into Lestat’s languid, insistent caress, already coaxing him closer, nearly into his lap. And it did cross Louis’s mind to resist. But why? This was a gift. A reprieve. And, besides, as soon as his lips touched that like-living skin, damp with blood sweat from the ride out of town, he found he no longer gave a damn. The rat was instantly worthless again. It all made so much sense.  

Lethargic and dizzy, Louis sucked Lestat’s pulse without protest, gradually edging his fangs inside. Upon puncture the metallic flavor hit him as a rush of heat on his tongue, rolling into him like a tropical tidal wave darkening a grey skyline. His head swam, his eyelids grew heavier still, and he moaned his relief, but it wasn’t quite sufficient, not fast, not hot enough. So, he pulled Lestat closer by the ruff of his jabot, and then he tore a jagged gash in his neck with his teeth, one that would certainly mean the end for a mortal man.

Not a monster though. Not Lestat. And this knowledge came with both a sense of relief and regret on Louis’s part.  

Instead of dying, Lestat merely hissed, swore, and tugged Louis’s hair in retaliation, digging claws into his scalp. And the pain of that caused a spike of angered arousal to pass through Louis’s stomach, fizzing out as a bloody gasp that dribbled down his chin, then dropped like rose petals onto the white of Lestat’s shirt.

He lamented their loss. Nevertheless, Louis clung to Lestat again without pause. Like the flea to the rat, grateful for the guiltless drink. Grateful to only leave an itch. He took frantic, hearty gulps of that unholy wine, feeling the mourned sun flood his veins. Feeling his flesh flush and swell in real time atop the rise of precious life. Feeling his world right itself and then mutate beautifully before his very eyes, even as they remained tightly shut.           

Oh, what an ingrate! What a wretch he’d been to call it hellish – it – _this…_ this was the essence of ignorant bliss! This was rapture enlightened! This was everything – everything Louis had wished it wouldn’t be! And he wanted to remain here, in this state of being, forever! He did! He did. He did…

But it was not up to him. It was up to the source. And Lestat cut it short. Pinned Louis down. That was it. The end.

He whined his disappointment, not unlike a child. He couldn’t withhold the sound, undignified though it was, and later he would regret it. But for now there was only a lack of satiation left to drive him.

He was warmer from the gift, but not burning, not as he wanted to be. And it was almost worse this way. Because at least when he had been cold for so long, he’d almost forgotten the heat. But now, as reality finally settled around him again, no longer that spinning blur of color in a tropical monsoon, Louis wanted to laugh at himself. Just as he wanted to cry.

_Easily trapped, indeed._

Lestat wasn’t finished yet, however. And, unaware of Louis’s turmoil, he touched his lips with his fingers, kissed the bloody trail which had escaped down his neck. And a wondrous expression was brightening his eyes, emphasizing their blueness all the while. Then he kissed Louis's lips as he never had before, forceful and open-mouthed, bloody and wet. It was… it was certainly something. A lot, really. Not so much as the drink, but still too laden with blood to resist, if Louis was being perfectly honest.

 _Let Lestat do as he pleases_ , something inside him said. And it made sense. Louis knew it would be easiest. But nothing about it appealed to him. It wasn't the right kind of... right.       

After a minute, though, Lestat pulled back and just lingered there, a breath away from a touch. And Louis became intensely aware of a hand, tight on his side, even so far as to note the creases of each individual joint of each individual finger through the fabric of his waistcoat.

“Tastes good,” said Lestat, his tongue slipping out to swipe at his bottom lip.

Louis wasn’t sure if he meant his mouth or his own blood lining it, but he was disinclined to ask. He stared coldly up at him instead.

This time Lestat kept smiling. “What? Do you want more?”

“Yes.” Louis hadn’t meant to say that. He tried to take it back. “Well, no. I…”

But it was too late. Lestat already had an idea, it came with the peculiar look on his face. And he hummed contemplatively as he sat up, encouraging with his hands for Louis to do the same.          

“Tomorrow I will give you a bit more,” he stated, replacing the hand on Louis’s cheek. “Then when you are strong enough I will take you to hunt, and we will put an end to this misery once and for all.”   

“Lestat, you don't understand, that’s –“ But Louis had no chance to protest further, for he was kissed again.

And the action tore a high sound of surprise from his throat, then a moan when blunt teeth caught on his lip. He latched onto Lestat’s arm for support. Something solid, unmoving, unlike his vision, steady and simple to cling to. Something there. Something constant, more so than even the doubt had been. Warm and durable and _real_.

But it remained less than enough, and Louis was at war with himself, or what was left of it – with that voice in his head screaming the words  _be still for him!_      

“I don’t want to hear anymore arguing, Louis,” Lestat said as soon as they parted, his voice suspiciously soft. “It's time to let go. You can trust me; I’ll look after you. I'll catch you if you fall.”

 _I’m already falling_ , Louis wanted to tell him. _I can see the ground._

But it would do no good to articulate this thought. So, he simply followed the voice and sat still. Closed his eyes. Felt the return of lips, and the touch which ran, fleeting, across his neck and shoulders and sides, making him tremble and convulse. He listened to the sounds they made, the shifting of two inhuman bodies working against each other – soft, but hard – alive, but dead. Until Louis had been kissed so thoroughly, and petted so persistently, that time began to blur, boiling down to a single point of being.       

And that point was Lestat. It was all Lestat. It had been every night since.

So, on Lestat's whim they stayed like that for the remainder of the evening, occupying the same spot on the sofa, exchanging quiet and Lestat offering a potion of touch. Until, finally, when the sky began to color, he pulled Louis to his feet and led him to his single coffin, where he got in on his back and ordered him to follow suit. Just as he had the first night.

Only this time when Louis settled atop, he felt heavy and oddly comforted by Lestat’s presence. And when Lestat’s hands came up, closed the lid, and slipped under Louis's arms to settle on his waist, it only added to that feeling. Even more as pretty, hollow words were whispered to him, promising warmth and tenderness and affection, which Louis knew not to hold his breath for. But he could not resist dreaming of it, even as he felt he could no longer breathe.

His insides were still corrupted by that ice after all, touched here and there by a bit of warm blood, but no more. Just enough to tease.

He wanted to focus on that feeling though. So, he did as well as he could. But it was with great difficulty, because just as he was a sort of comfort from the hunger, Lestat was an annoyance, a distraction, awake and moving subtly below him, humming to himself. And Louis wanted to bite him, both to keep him still and to help his cause.

But he did not. He simply willed the heat to grow, to be watered by the atmosphere. And just as he felt nails dragging on the skin of his back, it did. That precious warmth blossomed inside of his chest, and darkness took him from the light.

Yet, even through the eclipse there seeped the sound of dripping water.

Even now, the well was still depleting…  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @Isabel
> 
> i'm really nervous about posting this... 
> 
> hey, so... as you can see it's not done yet. but since i'm not sure how long it's gonna take me to write out the smut (cuz im a coward), and because i now know there are actually other people waiting for this too, i figured i might as well just post the first part already, right? 
> 
> and even though the second half will be notably longer than this one was (which i didn't want to do, because it grates on my OCD), it's already close to done, so you won't have to wait nearly as long for it. i might even end up making it three parts depending on the final word count... 
> 
> here's to hoping it doesn't ruin the suspense! haha... 
> 
> oh, but i will say that there are going to be a lot of unexpected themes to this story that came about on their own as i wrote... so if something seems emphasized, either literally or by the tone and pacing, it'll probably pop back up in the next part. just sayin' 
> 
> \---
> 
> anyway, as usual everyone please forgive all my mistakes until i have time to edit this properly...  
> you know how it be~


	2. Step 2: Regret

_“We all will meet our Gaia_  
_We all descend with sun_  
_The moon who greets, the rise repeats  
_ _No new life has begun”_

 

[…]

 

Louis came to in abnormal, cloud-like comfort. But he was lying on his back; he realized it only when the void had pulsed out of his vision. And that he was alone. In a bed.

Panic jolted him. He sat up and looked around the room, taking in the enclosure deemed “his” by necessity, but not truly seeing it. There was an itching hope of an overactive imagination on the inner walls of his skull. But soon, like paper pealing to reveal the foundation, the hunger reasserted itself, and he heard Lestat calling his name off in another room.

He turned towards the wall between them, but it was all wrong: barren and decayed. A skeleton. Bugs had begun crawling from between the cracks in the wood, as if reacting to the sound too. And moisture dripped along the edges, followed by fast-spreading mold. A putrid green and black that stuck to the bodies of flies, roaches, and centipedes that scattered through it.

Catching all that it touched. Fire on a dry field of grass.

Louis gasped at the sight, recoiled towards the headboard of his bed. For fear of infection he could not bring himself to his feet. He could only stare at that growing stain. Could only wait for it to reach him. To be sure it would overcome. Easy.       

Suddenly, the door slammed open. A reckoning, that seemed. But it was Lestat standing there, in the entrance, not anyone important, though his appearance still effortlessly pulled Louis’s gaze off the wall. However, when he glanced back, unable yet to calm himself, it was intact, pristine. Rot, replaced by the ornamental cover he was so begrudgingly accustomed to. No mold. No pests.

Well, aside from the one…   

Lestat quirked a brow at him. “Did you have a nightmare?” came the taunt as he walked over to sit at the foot of the mattress.

“No. You put me in the bed?” Louis deflected.

Lestat shrugged. “I thought you’d appreciate waking as a mortal again, just this once.” Then, suddenly, he paused, something unreadable flitting across his face. He wasn’t meeting Louis’s eyes anymore. “It would appear I was mistaken.”    

Louis didn’t know how to respond to that. So, he threw the sheets off to the side and swung his legs over the bed. Then, with his back to Lestat, he took a second to adjust his clothes and went to stand, only to find that during the day his legs had reverted to their weakened state. And instead of walking to the window as he’d intended to, he landed in heap on the floor.

The perpetually spinning floor…

Lestat was at his side in an instant, sighing in an all too patronizing manner as he helped him back to his feet.

“Have you fallen for me already?” he joked. “Oh, Louis, Louis, Louis, what are we to do with you?”  

Louis stared down as he was lifted, willing the floor to steady.

“I don’t know.”  

Lestat let out a quiet tut to that and muttered something contemplative in acknowledgement. With his hand still stuck to Louis’s arm, he rounded him to get a clear look at his face.

“Would you like what I promised you now?” he wondered, voice soft and light as though he were addressing a frightened animal.

Louis put a hand to his face, shook his head.

“Oh,” Lestat chuckled, “but I think you do.”

And with that he bit into two of his fingers, and once they’d begun to seep he turned up his hand to let the blood well atop it. And it was as clear an offering as any.  

Unwilling, Louis stared as Lestat’s blood began to bead and glow in the candlelight, threatening to overflow and drip down to be wasted. Already it was pooling in his hand. And at the thought of it hitting the carpet, agony wracked Louis’s gut. He nearly reached out to save it, to intercept. But he stopped instead.

In an attempt to resist the pull, he sat back on the bed, watching Lestat watch him. And hating him for it – for what he _knew_ he’d deliberately done.

But Lestat didn’t know. Didn’t _care_. He just kneeled before him with his bloody fingers hovering there between their chests. So at ease with himself, so nonchalant in his predicament, all while knowing enough to break him. And it burned Louis that, as much as he wished it weren’t, it _was_ enough. Lestat held the key that said so. And he was right; Louis wanted it again.

He unconsciously licked his lips. His mouth opened slightly, chasing the smell, so sweet, and so close to the taste. And of its own accord, his hand rose, wrapping around Lestat’s wrist, tugging him closer. However, in a flash of bitter clarity Louis stopped himself again. For he’d been brought back by the solid weight on his palm, and how his eyes flickered to Lestat’s face to find him smiling. Something devious sparked in his pupils. Something shadowed and starving. Unworried.

And just for a moment, Louis thought that might be it. That he'd been wrong after all, and therein might lie the answers he sought. Not inside his vision, not self-sacrifice. And he breathed, unsettled by the idea, through his nose, looking again at the droplets which had escaped from between Lestat's fingers and leaked now onto his lap. Then, like they had, he slipped. And his world narrowed down just to the memory of taste and sound.

Louis was losing, he knew, a game he couldn’t hope to win.

Because when Lestat told him to, when he said those words in that voice – “Go ahead, Louis, take it...” – that’s exactly what he did.

And it was red vibrating. He saw fire behind his eyelids, feeding, quite literally, out of the palm of Lestat’s hand. But it was distant too. Too much like the past, in that it existed just out of reach. And as he sucked and gnawed at the fingers in his mouth in a desperate need to follow, Louis was only just aware of his body being manipulated, that he was now lying on his side. Or that Lestat had settled behind him, pressed along the curve of his back, and begun murmuring pleasantly into his ear.

Until finally sense returned. Fingers slipped, slick, from Louis’s mouth and, in swirls of bloody paint, trailed from his neck to his chest. Then lingered there, over his heart.

The rest was a blur. All he knew was that eventually he was hauled to his feet again, and that he dressed up to Lestat’s standards on his order, far too focused on the burning in his throat to think of much else. He only fell back to himself for a second even, when he heard the servants whisper to each other. When he felt his body be led outside, then to the stables, by Lestat.

Lestat, whose sounds he never stopped hearing, whose scent he never stopped detecting from between his very own lips. He was aware of it all, exclusively, in that moment in time: his hard hands, his wet mouth, his lying tongue, and his bitter, coppery tang, like rapture.

It was too much. Too fast. Too real. How it had been every night since…  

Louis wanted to run from it. But where? Where was there except the soil? Except the sands at the bottom of the ocean? Except rot and ash and nothingness? And what was even the point of going anywhere anymore? Where were they even going now?

“To town, of course. As I said before.”

Louis turned his head.

“What?”

Lestat did not answer right away. He merely showed a skeptical face as he climbed onto his horse.

“You asked where we were going,” he explained, then paused and muttered to himself. “Perhaps it wasn’t enough. Oh, well... too little, too late.”

Stunned, Louis gazed up at him, only just comprehending that he’d spoken his last question aloud.

“You’ll ride with me, I think,” Lestat decided. “I don’t trust you to stay atop that thing on your own, the way you are now.” With his elbow he motioned towards Louis’s horse, where it was still housed in its stall.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Louis said.

“Nonsense.” And there was Lestat’s hand, right in front of his face, poised to be bitten again. “Come now, up you go. In front.”

This time, Louis took it.

 

[…]

 

It was the colder months now, or as cold as they could be at least. And so the city was alive with the wealthiest in the area, those who had returned from their vast country homes, where they spent the majority of their summers in lieu of risking New Orleans’s notoriously feverish heat.  

Among them was a breathtaking girl – or a woman rather, just so – who lived with her French father and Spanish mother on the Rue Royale. Often times while in town Louis would pass by and hear her reading aloud to herself through the gallery windows in the wee hours of the morning while both parents were asleep. Poetry and literature and encyclopedias of everything in every language: this was the inspired hobby of a rich man’s daughter.

He coveted the fire that burned in her. And frequently he’d stop to watch her if about the area, unable to look away from the inky spirals of hair that toppled down her shoulders as she paced, the tendons appearing and disappearing on her wrists with the flex of her fingers around the book’s cover. Unable to close his ears to the pulsing rhythm of her heart in time with the rise and fall of her silk-enclosed breast as the story grew exciting, and her narration became breathless and exaggerated. And it was as if the wild light of the sun had appeared in those icy blue eyes, pure and wide as a doe’s.

Even now, he stood in the shadows of a filthy alcove doing just that – admiring, enjoying his limited time. And waiting too. Listening for it beyond her heavily accented French, the sound he knew was sure to come. Any second now. 

 _Thump, thump, thump –_ there it was, right on cue.

“Ah, what divine beauty,” Lestat cooed, appearing at his back. “Spanish gold in New Orleans. Do you know her name, Louis? I suppose not.”

Louis didn’t answer. He simply continued to look upon her.

“It’s Josephine,” Lestat informed him. Then he stepped into Louis’s line of sight. Already, he was grinning like a fiend.  “You know, I have to admit, dull though you may be, you are not completely without taste. Her blood would surely sing to you.”      

Louis swallowed hard, turning away both from Lestat and from the view of Josephine’s sun-kissed skin and slight, supple form expertly crafted in a rose-colored dress.  

“I won’t,” he choked. 

“But you want her,” was Lestat’s rebuttal. He was frowning now.      

“No. I cannot.”

“And why not? You want her, and I’ve lent you the strength to take her! So, take her!”

“I said no!”  

“And I said yes! Do it! Cure yourself of this pain as only you can!”

“I cannot!” Louis cried, then turned on his heel and began down the block.

“Cannot, cannot, cannot!” Lestat mocked, following close behind. “I’ll tell you what you cannot do! You cannot go on like this! You will not survive the year, let alone the century! You’ll be an animal – a beast at best!”

It sounded like a threat. But there was a certain fear in his voice that Louis had not foreseen. He wondered who it was really for. And suddenly he found words again.

“But it would not kill me! So, to murder one so innocent and still call it ‘survival’…?” He stopped in his tracks, stared at his feet. “Maybe I was not meant to last. Maybe you made a mistake in making me, what of that?”

“An evil-doer then,” Lestat tried to compromise, “at the very least. But you will  _not_ continue to starve! I won’t permit it!” 

Louis wrapped his arms around himself. Kept walking.

“Damn masochistic fool of a vampire!” Lestat called after him, finally letting him go. “It’s pointless! What I say is true; you won’t die from this, Louis, only suffer! It will take more than that to end your wretched existence!”

But Louis couldn’t hear him anymore, not truly. Another sound was busy ringing through his ears and into his gut, blocking the rest of the world out. A bell, he knew. And then his gait turned to a run, and he found himself at the river’s edge when he followed its call, the dark water breaking into fragments around his ankles, like a cracking mirror still in its silver frame. Whole for the moment, but one gentle push and it shall surely shatter. A thousand pieces of one.

Lestat’s voice was gone, but had yet to truly fade. A mirage of him was sitting off in the distance, becoming more and more intangible. And, still, the bell was swinging. Still, it rung.   

Eyes closed, Louis waded deeper into that liquid glass, up to the thigh, as he listened. Thinking it might cleanse him of it, or at least hoping so. And feeling, in the void, the world begin to shift again and grow. Shadows were already wandering back into his line of sight.

Then it happened all at once: his insides lurched, saliva welled in his mouth, and a blood sweat broke around his hairline. Until, at last, in a spontaneous fit of nausea he bent forward and violently vomited his second “gift” from Lestat into the river.

The last of the century, or so he’d been assured, gone to waste. And it had been so small... He was purged of it so quickly.

 _Good riddance,_ he thought when it was done.

Suddenly, a bloated rat sprung from the water, disrupting the moon’s reflection on the surface. Louis’s head jerked in its direction. But it paid him no mind, merely sniffed at the sodden ground for a time before scampering off towards the city, it’s long, fleshy tail whipping back and forth behind it as it went. It was the last bit to be seen as it dropped down a drain.

He watched it intently, unblinking, unable to look away.       

Once it was gone, Louis turned and splashed himself to clean his face. Then he stumbled out of the water, and on the bank he collapsed to his hands and knees and tried to remember peace. Tried to be reminded of it in the Earth surrounding, even as it spun. He stared at the mud where he landed, watching the individual granules of dirt move with moisture and miniscule life, making the surface seem to swell like his flesh once had with blood, and he dug his hands deeper, needing to be a part of that rotation. Needing to absorb it.

The soft ground felt unusually gratifying between his fingers, gathering under his nails with every hasty scrape. It was a wonderful grainy texture, one to get lost in. But even as he thought this, he knew he had not long to savor the sensation, for his vision was fading fast. His head felt like it was full of stones.

With a groan, he let himself drop and turn onto his back. As he lay there, he watched thick black clouds roll over the moon above.   

Had Lestat been withholding this from him? He wondered. _Lying about it?_ For this floating felt nostalgic, like how he’d sometimes imagined death. On the better nights, that was. And suddenly nothing sounded better than to be buried. Alone. In the dirt.

But at the same time nothing sounded worse.

And the only real comfort, Louis found, was the sound of nothing at all.

So, that was it; that was what he embraced.  

 

[…]

 

This time he was lying in an undecorated bed when he opened his eyes, the one in the little room he remembered best from those days. And though the windows were out, he heard not the whispers nor the footsteps of the servants he expected through them, nor the wind or the chirp of the birds, or the buzz of the cicadas between. Instead a steady, disheartening silence prevailed. And it was morning, one more unsettling than any before it.

He sat up, conscious now of the fuzziness of it all – how the fabric between his fingers was soft, but appeared as one opaque swatch of cloth rather than the threading it should be, how the walls quivered and undulated under nothing but their own weight, and how the ceiling seemed too far, like it was the sky itself. And he touched his neck, for it felt as though it were being squeezed by a ribbon. But his fingers met only flesh – warm, tender flesh – and he knew it, like the morning, not to belong.

So, he stood, tested his stride, and found that he was so light his bare feet did not make even a sound on the carpeted floor.  And he was perturbed, but relaxed by this realization, even as he carefully walked to the door: flaxen wood and brass, it was also too tall, and he noticed that the knob sat at an odd height, almost out of reach. But, inexplicably, he knew that it was not sized for him, so he did not take the time to dwell on it. Rather, he waited for the one it was meant for, as he knew he must. Someone was meant to come for him...

Who was it again? He tried to imagine their face. Hers. A woman’s…

That’s right: a wide-cut jaw, thick black hair, deep blue eyes, and a mouth that rarely turned up. Little waist cinched, little manicured hands clasped with a rosary in prayer. A prominent breast, and a less-than-emotive brow. Floral perfumes, dresses with no pattern, a dull, quiet voice, and passive, fleeting affection. Strict piety, devoted possession, the zip of the needle pulling the thread.   

That’s right. It was Mother. She was the one meant to come for him.     

But Mother did not come when she ought to. In fact, he had the feeling she wouldn’t be coming at all – that she’d gone somewhere untouchable. And so he thought to look for her, and he crept from his room with tiny, hesitant steps, knowing he was not supposed to be a bother, only to see that the hall was empty. There was no one there to disturb.

It was something out of a fantasy, a novel of horror. The walls and floor were too bare, too white to be real. And the door to Mother’s room sat further than he ever remembered it being. So far that, at his current pace, it took hours just to reach. Or so it felt. And to his distress it appeared flat when he touched it, painted or carved into the wall as opposed to existing there. It made his heart ache. His throat tight with fear.

He called for Mother in question. But there came no answer. Only a shadow passing across the keyhole, blocking the light for but a moment. Then vanishing. Gone.

Compelled by the nothingness, he peered through the hole and into the room. But she was not there. Just as he’d predicted. No one was, in fact. And though the bassinet of his sister rocked, there was also no sleeping infant inside. It was, instead, covered in white sheets that, upon second glance, had been painted with lines of blood.    

 _Blood on a covered chest._ He saw it almost too well. But he closed his eyes to it.

It was time to turn away. To move on. His memory was sparking again.

And his next destination was the study, for when Mother was missing, Father was next. And Father often hid there. Suddenly, he could even hear his hacking cough again. But never before had he dared to peer inside, never to see it happen. It was forbidden after all, and he was an obedient, good child, praised by the church for his shame. So the thought was just abhorrent, as if against his very nature.

But desperate times called for lines to be crossed, barriers to be broken, doors not to be shut. And when he finally reached it, he touched it, leaned forward, closed his eyes. It was real.  

Then he was looking inside. And the walls here were windowless, but not barren as they were in the hall: black and brown and textured like the waters of the swamp – like the algae that stuck to the crocodile’s back. And they crumbled in the stillness, to the floor made of dirt, teeming with “worthless” life. A pungent aroma pouring through, a noxious gas rising from the ground, thick and revolting, excrement and death. But, even so, in the middle of it all sat a figure, a tall, familiar figure slouched in a familiar chair. 

_Father…_

He nearly banged on the door. He nearly shouted at Father to get out. But a candle flickered to life of its own accord, and it made him come to a halt. And that was when he saw it: flesh discolored in decay. Mold, slowly eating at him. Great gaps in the gaunt skin of his cheeks. White, bony fingers clenched around the arms of the char. Arms and legs, stiff with rigor mortis, not unlike the wood on which he sat. Lips cracked and peeling, dripping something like bloody vomit and spit.

And he remembered, Father had long ago died.

Suddenly, his eyes were drawn from that horror, to the corner of the room, where there was some small movement in the dust. And, as if from nowhere, a rat popped up, having dug through the floor, and it began making it’s way directly towards Father’s corpse.

In three skilled jumps it traversed his body, from knee, to chest, to sit itself comfortably upon his shoulder. Then it leaned forwards and, with no apparent remorse, began eating his eye from its socket.           

A scream left his mouth, trickling off into the whiteness, and he pushed his whole body back from the door.  But the corruption followed. It was heading his way, leisurely creeping between the cracks.

Then came a voice, the voice of a man.

“Why aren’t you running? Come, now! Hurry!”   

Resentment. Pure and untamed resentment laced its tone. And, in a boom, it seemed to come for everywhere and nowhere all at once. Leaving no echo, no trace, and, as such, a dreadful sense of urgency was standing in its place.

“Where?!” he called back, spinning on the spot. “Where are you?!”  

“Hurry!” came the cryptic reply. “It’s coming! You must hurry now! We must go!”

“What’s coming?! Where do I go?!”

“Here! Hurry! Now!”

But he saw nothing – no man, no woman, no “it,” and no sign to pinpoint their location. So, he began to think it was all in his head, that he must be going properly insane. And with the fear of that came a heavy frustration, which made him tug and rip at his hair. But not yell. For what good would it do to yell anymore? What good would it do to speak? No one was coming for him either way. He was alone here, left to suffer like this. Because it must’ve been that they knew he was useless, that they knew he was but a burden, and now they were not coming back. 

And the voices? Well, they were clearly a ruse, a self-spun lie to sooth the ache of that truth. He was not a child anymore. No one cared where he was.

Yet, even knowing this, they would not be silenced. In fact, under the attention they flourished, they persisted.   

“Louis?” It was Mother’s voice calling this time, in the tone she often used when she coaxed him out of hiding. For when he was ashamed, it was a given that he hid. “Where are you, _ma petite puce?_ ”

 _I’m here!_ He wanted to cry. _Where are you? Why won’t you come get me?_ But no voice came out. His body had seized up, decided to do nothing. After all, was that not all he knew how to do? Was it not what had always worked? And was it not for the best in the end: nothing?    

Nothing. And that clanging sound… Where was it coming from again? Why did he feel like going there? And what was it? A bell?

Oh, yes, that was right.

It was a bell.

 

[…]

 

Then there was no longer nothing. And nothing was everything once more.

And he was soaked by salted rain when he opened his eyes, the swelling river now nipping at his feet. His clothes stuck to him grossly, chilled and caked with mud, but he hardly felt it. He sat up on his elbows and peered down at himself, not recognizing what was his own. And like this it was apparent. No more than a pile of bones in a thin sack of skin, his body – a literal corpse. Especially here, like this, on the banks of a storm-darkened river. Like some poor peasant murdered in a wealthy person’s rage – forgettable, damnable. No kin to be mourned by. Utterly abandoned to rot.

What a miserable, unacceptable state this was. And the sight of it was so, that it set something to motion in his mind. Made a decision for him that he hadn’t even known to make.

After all, the bell, it really _was_ ringing this time. It had been what roused him to that “other” in the first place. And it left him indebted, with the desire to look upon it, to see if he could see its sounds.

But no, not yet. The bell would still be there for a time. It could wait.

Now he would stand. Now he would hunger and be sated. And now he would continue to be. For there was nothing left of him, nothing except for the everything and the need.

And yes, his eyes were open. But was he yet awake? Would he ever again be?

 

[…]

 

He would, unfortunately. 

Though he was not yet completely returned from that state. Something had chosen to take mercy on him instead – to grant a second’s pardon from the pain. And it was so astounding, an angel’s most skilled touch of the tongue, that he thought he’d come to in heaven.

Well, heaven tasted of metal if this was it. With a texture like wrought iron, it was grainy and sleek all the same. And it brought energy back to his eyes, the echoing clang and sizzling strike of a blacksmith’s tools and a hearth’s roaring glow. Behind his lids he saw the warm embers dancing – the tempting touch of melting earth, brighter than the nearest star, drawing him in – how they moved to the beat with every expert hit.

It was just within reach. And like he might’ve as a child, he extended his arm towards the light. But there came no pain on the palm of his hand. No molten metal to burn as it joined with his chilling skin. No ragged screams as he felt it drip down his throat. Only rightness. Warm and real.

Someone was sobbing nearby. He became aware of the sound as one becomes aware of their lover’s early demise. Not at all, at first, for denial is a tricky, devilish thing. Then suddenly and utterly, with an agonizing sureness that hits – like the blacksmith’s strike – at the very heart of it all. Cold water splashed on the unbearable heat of the core. A name is called, but there is no answer. And what remains is the empty side of a bed.

He felt a weight in his hands as his body returned to him, following the return of the mind. It was only just bearing down on his shoulders, and it had little more than the force and form of a doll. Dense, but pliable, soft, and silky with burns – in great contrast to the delicious gravel on his tongue.  

He opened his eyes. Then dropped it.

It wasn’t a doll.  

It was her.   

“No…” Louis took a step back. Only then realizing that the sobbing he heard was his own. For he recognized that face, that smell, that _taste_.

It was her.   

Thick, dark, finely plaited hair. A tiny, curved breast covered in pink lace. Parted lips like flower petals, and eyes wide, pure, and in the colors of every jewel he’d ever seen. But empty. Repulsively empty.  

It was her: Josephine.

“No,” Louis choked again. Then glanced around, taking stock of his surroundings.

A mirror. A fireplace. A bed. A room. Her room, he realized. He’d come here in his haze. He remembered very little of it, just a few flashes, a rendition of the truth. But true, it was; his body stumbling in the sand, the dirt roads through town passing beneath his feet, his hand, wet on the doorknob, and his unstable legs ascending the stairs – then his fingers touching her shoulder, covered in grime, and the glint of his nails. His eyes seeing her turn to him. Seeing her mind give way. Then finally, dipping down. Finally, taking her with his mouth.

His back hit a wall, eyes stuck on that beautiful corpse.  

No! This was another dream – a trick! He hadn’t done it! Not him! Not her! He couldn’t have!

But then Louis looked at his hands, covered in blood now alongside the dirt, and he brought them up near his mouth. It was the scent that made him do it – made him pause.

The shadow began seeping back into sight.

 

And suddenly, he was looking down that well again, seeing the water rise. An interesting phenomenon, for where was the source? It had not rained here in weeks. He wanted to keep watching it, to see where this would lead. But as the liquid rippled and came into the light, in disgust he withdrew.

It was thick, meaty, and stained a browning red. Just like the gaping wound on that fragile, sun kissed neck.    

 

Of its own accord Louis’s tongue came out to lap every last drop of blood from his hands, even sucking his fingers clean, like a man meant for death savoring his final meal. Though his eyes never left the body, and the tears never stopped lining his cheeks, he savored it. He was thankful. He wanted to hold her, to kiss her, to apologize, appreciate, and maybe to pray for this sacred warmth. But more than anything else, he wanted to get away. Far, far away.

And the ground moved from beneath him again. Though this time for a different reason, as Louis leapt from the gallery with a fluid ease he did not know he possessed.  

Even before his feet fully hit the ground, he was running. He had to go now. He had to get to the source, the church – the bell. To watch it and allow it to take him and wear him down. He wasn’t sure why. He only knew that he was stuck on it. So long as he kept seeing it in his mind’s eye, he knew there must be a reason, that it would not end until that was where he went! For surely something was bound to happen there! Something needed to be witnessed!     

When Louis reached the church, however, he hesitated to enter. He ducked into the shadows just outside instead – hiding again, always hiding – and the block was seemingly deserted from where he stood, bewitched by a peaceful lull. But from inside the white structure, he could hear the herded voice and movements of a mass, the soul-shaking choir music permeating the air, escalating and gradually drowning out the sick beggar’s cry in the distance – the scamper of the rat.

Even up above, there was the whoosh of a rope, the image of the fibers, frayed at the end, and the way it wrapped around a calloused hand.

Louis was in a trance, numbed by that vision. He gazed up at the pointed tower, saw the cross that sat atop, and was struck by a sudden urge to scale it and tear it off. But he would not, could not. And instead he touched the wall with his hand and waited, because the vibrations in his legs were telling him something. Now he needed to listen. It was like a secret in a language he’d heard all his life but never gotten to learn. A poem made up of broken sentences, whose meaning only comes across in bits and pieces, by mood and atmosphere. And, at last, it was addressing him.

 _“Life is chaos and immeasurable beauty,”_ it sang. _“If it can be tamed or measured, then it is not life_.”

And then, as the climax came forth, as the priest’s hollering grew and a hush fell over the mass, the rope was tugged. The bell swung.

_GONG!_

It blurred his vision, shook the brain in his head. He wanted to reach out and stop it, but how? And why? Was this not exactly what he’d hoped for? Was it not what he sought to see? After all, it was doing him a favor. It was taking her face from him.   

_GONG!_

On the other side of the wall, an infant started crying. The mother bounced him on her hip, but his wailing did not cease. An elderly couple seated in the first pew sighed in unison, and further towards the back a man was whispering about superstition to the woman at his right. She scowled nastily at him, tongue poised to lash, but then a hand settled on her side, and she smiled and he was looking again at the priest.    

_GONG!_

The priest, whose feet shifted inelegantly against the floor, adjusting to the ache, and whose round stomach protruded through his robes even more than usual when his arms rose up in dramatic emphasis. His eyes darted around, avoiding the gaze of his audience, looking convincingly just above their heads. Every once in a while his hand would rise up to wipe the spit from his mouth, and then he would pause and motion to the sky, as though exchanging some secret intelligence with God.

Louis heard it happen twice. First in his head, then in his ears: a harrowing crack echoed down from the ceiling, followed by a creaking drawl, the recognizable sound of bending wood. And the moment the stained glass began shaking, the congregation peered up as one. Some looked on in awe, others in fear, and others in scholarly wonder. But everyone inside was still, ready to witness the event. Even the infant had ceased his cries.

But it was Louis, alone, who realized the truth of the matter in those final few seconds – that something was about to give way.

And then it did.

There was a crumble and a shriek as the beams from which the bell was suspended broke. And in a rush, it came plummeting through the ceiling of the church, a harbinger of union, death, and now chaos, for with its path obstructed by the building’s foundation it bounced against the walls, its trajectory unpredictable. And there was the great roar of panic in the wake of that first sound, along with the pounding of feet. And, finally, the dust settled, and where the floor once had been, there now sat a pile of holy debris. Splintered wood, rubble, blood between the pews, and that perfect, unworried bell. 

Louis closed his eyes to the vision. He knew it as something he should not be able to see. For he was behind a wall. His eyes were closed.

But, even so, he could not shut out the moans and screams that floated up, out the mangled roof of the church, and into the night sky. He could not hope to wake from this dream. So, in petty desperation he simply pretended that's what it was. Not an omen, not the truth, just a dream.    

And, like a fool, he thought, _I need to get to Lestat._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> honestly i don't like this part that much; i wanted it to feel hazy and poignant like a fever dream, but really it just reads so choppy to me, and it jumps around a lot... i almost found it annoying while editing... 
> 
> at this point though this story can really be summed up by the sentence "louis wakes up a bunch", huh? lol w/e i think i got the message across as well as i could in any case 
> 
> anyway part 3 isn't done yet, but it's going to shed some light on lestat's perspective, and it should also be the longest and most emotional bit of the story if i write it correctly. so if you've enjoyed what you've read so far from me, then you can look forward to that, i guess ... plus it's also the part with all the smut, soooooo................... 
> 
> thanks for reading,  
> see ya then~
> 
> \--------------
> 
> EDIT 8/19/18: fixed up the pacing, added some things, and edited a typo /shrugs


	3. Step 3: Forsake

  _“Lips touch, something starts too_  
_But he should not yet forgive you  
__There was not just One”_

 

[…]

Dawn was not far off. A few hours at most considering the time of year.  

Lestat watched the sky warily through the wafting cover of white curtains. It crossed his mind that "someone" ought to hurry.

He was thinking to himself too, or musing more like it, because he liked the sound of that better, that rage was a distasteful thing. But it was a feeling he well understood. And in light of his current state, he’d much rather be enraged than... this. Whatever it was – this _weakness_ …

But then again, Lestat was no stranger to weakness, was he? Or emotions, if they were not one in the same. Come to think of it, within the span of his meager fraction of eternity he’d wept in the face of fear and love far too many times to claim otherwise.

Ah, yes, that was right. He always did have a particularly reliable memory.

So, should he lie and say that he was numb to it at last? That it didn’t hurt, that he didn’t revel in it somehow? And should he feel ashamed?

He didn’t think so.

Besides, to know one’s own weakness was to have strength; this Lestat had learned as a child of God, and even now that he was an Other he still found the phrase to hold true. Thus, it was only natural that he felt no shame in admitting what he’d fall to, at least softly to himself, for he had no fear of rolling ankles or of a lack of armored boots. And if someone were to call him out on it, to proclaim his appetite for beauty, he’d have no reason to deny them either.

He was far from alone in admiring the aesthetics of the garden in any case. Much of the world prayed through their pockets these days – it was a testament to their willingness to decorate. And Lestat was no exception, not now, not ever. On the contrary, actually, he was an exacerbation!

Granted, it was true this could necessitate his end. Though he supposed if something had to still, it might as well be his choice what. Because if idiocy was contagious, then Lestat _was_ willingly falling victim to that most deadly of diseases. He felt it after all, really felt it. Like he felt the remorse fade and then bloom with every ended life, and how he felt like a rotten, placid moron, sitting here pining for a face.

Not to mention the wretch it belonged to, who’d deny him – of all the unwilling, inactive creatures!

Really! Who else would do such a thing? What other vampire would condemn themselves to such eternal, unstable dependency as Lestat had? With his limited experience regarding their kind, he couldn't say for sure. But he had a suspicious echo in his head that suggested the answer was “few, you fool!” Or even just the one. And it sounded an awful like his mother _,_ the voice it came in. Suffixed by the thought of a disapproving Marius…  

Nonetheless, perilous pining was something of an itch for Lestat, no matter how logic screamed. Marius knew already, and so did Gabrielle _,_ who loved him unconditionally for it! And so, who was he to prove them wrong? Pine, he would! Did!

And, oh, what a waste it was. And how addictive! How marvelous! How so very like him! And, _forgive me, Marius, for not heeding your warnings as I heed the wind_ , he wanted to shout, _I’ll never do it again!_ And, _forgive me, Gabrielle – Mother, for being this weak and unlike you_ , but it was a fallacy! He wasn’t sorry – he was not even to blame! For he was powerless against it, just like he’d always been!

And how could Lestat ever hope to be distracted from that truth, even for a moment, when it itched as it did now, dirty little feet on his shoulder – when the thought of his longing lingered in all that he heard and touched?

Like the keys of the harpsichord for example, which had once been a pleasure, but now chimed in tones too reminiscent of some storybook tragedy that, for all its clichés, he couldn’t quite adore as he ought to. And it was as boring as it was unavoidable, most likely a tale of some princess in a tower waiting to be saved by her prince. Or, if Lestat was the author, to be thrown out the window.

Or the metaphorical warning from a God who is wrathful towards the same men he claims to have fathered and loved. The men he says he will guard from harm, deliver to paradise, but only if they are devout.

 _Devout…_ Was it truly so essential to be?

Because, well, Lestat _was._ Just not to any God. The object of his ardor was much more tangible than that, and much less deserving, not unlike Lestat, himself. And it was a celestial thing in its imperfection, its demonic truth: Them. He and his beautiful one. Together. Even as it was a haunting, a ghastly thing buried beside the sounds of his all, his garden of music, which had been birthed somewhere within what remained of his human heart.

And yes, futile though it may have been, Lestat was devout to that feeling; it motivated him, gave him life, and he wished his prayers to be heard by it.

_Ah, to be human again! To be human in irrational love!_

He wished to crush his hands against the organ and make it wail and groan, to drop the silver platters onto the tiled floors with an echoing ding that hits straight between the eyes, to scream and laugh in hysteria amidst the choir, to crash the colored glass to bits, and crack the polished wood to splinters. And to wrap the rope around his hand, to hear the soft, raspy sound of the fibers he could still feel beneath his nails. And to tug it. To ring that beautiful, silver bell as he sobbed a vanity plea.      

For even if it was fruitless – the garden no longer flourished – it was not that which terrified him most. It was something further away, plugging it's ears. Though still he would never cease playing, for beyond the singing harpsichord Lestat could always make out the song of its approach. And at the moment, it was all he needed. There was not much else.

Well, aside from the touch.

First it was the wind whipping off the river and through the drapes, its howling dull, but pretty in its way. Then it was the unified voice of the insects, the buzzes and chirps, the barely audible flicker of lightning bugs hovering above the water’s trickling surface, scattering, and the “eep!” of a small lizard as it retreated up a tree, lovely enough. Then it was the heavy press of a horse’s hooves on softened dirt, and the hurried, hushed voices and prattle of servants rushing to hang at the doors, lovelier still. The hollow thud of feet in fitted leather shoes on wood and a fast paced franticness about the quiet way in which he spoke and, suddenly, _yelled,_ ordering the servants away. Purely divine.  

Lestat closed his eyes and began to put his whole body into his music, swaying, improvising, gradually growing louder and quicker with every guiding step. For he was its accompaniment; he held no title here, he was no composer, and all he could hear was that which directed him – the tell-tale sound of a heartbeat, a body on the stairs! It came through the doorway, already calling his name.

He felt a smile break across his face.

“Lestat, I must speak with you!”

Lestat stopped his hands, ending the song on an abrupt, unnatural note. With a thin nonchalance about him, he turned, opened his eyes, and took in the sight of his favorite prey standing before him, come in its vulnerability, its distress to its one and only end. He had to take a moment to drink it all in. So in love, even as he was so in hate.  

“My, my, aren’t you looking livelier than I left you?” he observed. “Have you finally come around, _chéri?_ ”

“Come around?!” Louis demanded, a volume and resonance returned to him which had been lacking as of late. “I’ve done no such thing! I’ve come to ask you to release me from it! I cannot take this silence anymore!” And oh, how pleasing that was to hear, desperation and all. Though, Lestat supposed, Louis was really in no place to be demanding things of him. Not when he held all the cards. And, no doubt Louis knew it, but it didn’t seem to stop him from persisting. “Either end it or tell me your secret!”

“What secret? You aren’t making sense,” drawled Lestat.

Louis hesitated as always at that, and yet the light in his eyes was too wild and, consequently, wildly telling.

Lestat couldn’t help but feel responsible for that naked fear on his fledgling’s face, his tight, defensive posture, even if it wasn't all his doing. Bittersweet in his splendor, it was fulfilling, but not nearly as fulfilling as he had imagined it to be. A bit of a disappointment, frankly. Maybe he should compose something after all...

He stood from the harpsichord, made his own approach.

“Oh, but there’s color in your cheeks. And light in your eyes.” He ran his fingers down the side of that perfectly morbid face as soon as he was within reach, a light, fleeting touch which went amazingly undisturbed. “Don’t you feel better now?” he wondered. “In the end was it really so difficult for you?” 

Louis swallowed hard, inadvertently pulling Lestat’s eyes to his throat.

“What are you, the Devil? Has it always been so easy for you?” he asked by way of reply, a frantic _something_ to his voice. This light was different: not a glow, but a blaze. And without pause he kept on. “Were you never tormented by the guilt? How do you bear it – what’s your secret? You must tell me, Lestat! There must be something I can do to end it – this – _this torment!”_

Lestat stared at him in horror. Dropped his hand. Took a step back.  

“Please, Lestat,” Louis continued to beg, “tell me!”

But what was there to tell this ingrate? 

Lestat sneered at him. “There is no secret, Louis. You know how. I’ve showed you how and you’ve just returned from _doing_ it. Or are you truly so forgetful?” He snorted at the notion. “But perhaps that’s not what you’re really asking for. Perhaps I cannot help you after all. And perhaps I should make this easy for us both and leave you to it instead.”

“No!” Louis gasped, gripping Lestat by the arm. “You can’t! Please don’t leave me like this!”

And that… well, Lestat liked the sound of that. Far, far too much did he like it, in fact, to the point of irritation. He laughed loudly – cruelly – and shrugged him off.

“You think you could stop me? No. I’ll do as I please.”

“And this – this pleases you?!” Louis clutched at his own frantic heart.

“Your groveling, you mean?” Lestat spat, turning up his chin. “Not in the slightest.”

“But you did this to me!” Such an accusation! Then he continued on as though he’d said nothing wrong; Lestat almost struck him. “Please, Lestat, I promise to do as you say now, if only you’d say something! I simply cannot take it anymore!”

“I’ve said plenty!” barked Lestat. “Clearly, you cannot hear me though! Or have you met the Lord and been cured of your deafness in the few hours since I left you?” He couldn’t quite keep the ire from his face, try though he might to seem unaffected, independent, above. “Amazing! It’s a miracle! I don’t believe it.”  

“But you were right,” so Louis went for the appeal. “If not for you, where would I be? Buried, Lestat! That coffin and I would be buried! And I feel it – I feel as though we should be even now! And I want it to stop! If I were to be in my grave, would it stop? Would you tell me?!”

“Don’t you dare,” Lestat bit out, expression suddenly hard, inorganically smooth again. “You cannot do that!”

“Why not? Give me a reason!”

“I am giving you one! You’ll go mad down there – madder than you already are! Don’t you dare do it, Louis!”

“Then how can I stop it?!”

“How should I know?! Don’t ask me! You’re insane!”

Louis was near bawling. “Then how do you know it won’t work?!”   

“Because I say so, damn it!” screamed Lestat. “And I say so, because I know! I am telling you this as a fact! That should be enough!”

“Should it?” Louis lashed back. “You say so much and yet so little! How do I know what to believe?! You deny my questions, threaten me, and refuse me all in the same breath, and then you expect me to trust you?! But you are obviously hiding something! And you say you do not need my money, but you won’t tell me why, then, you keep me around! What am I really here for, Lestat?! Why should I not be buried?!”  

“I’m beginning to question it too!” Lestat growled. “You’re far more hassle than you’re worth!”

“Please! If there was no reason, if I was merely in the wrong place at the wrong time, then at least tell me that! I must know _something!_ ”

This was becoming repetitive. Lestat tossed his head back, raking his hands through his hair.

“Damn it all – of course there’s a reason!”

“Then why?!” Louis latched onto him again, tugging him closer by his waistcoat. Lestat felt his hands shaking against his chest. Could practically feel his heart through that point of contact pounding at his own ribs.

Oh. This was it, Lestat realized, that temptress in white. And even as he wanted to continue on playing her game forever, to take it further and further, and to twist and pull at her veil until at last it slipped from her head like water, he wanted so much to end it. He wanted to take his turn and initiate that most coveted, climactic play. To stain her body a shade of crimson death.  

All he needed was an excuse, some reason to do so. And what easier excuse was there than the truth? After all, who was there to disappoint? Gabrielle knew. Marius knew. Hell, _Armand_ knew! Surely, She knew too. So, why should he lie to this one? Let alone himself. For he was weak to it, his ultimate temptation – the beautiful face of a tortured soul!

And, oh, how he loathed it!

“Because I wanted to!” Lestat snapped, grabbing Louis by the forearms to force him back a step. “And I took what I wanted! Do I need a better reason than that?! I certainly won’t need one to be rid of you!”

“There! See? You’re doing it again!” Louis cried. “I am not blind, Lestat! I know there’s something you still will not say! No more of this! You are torturing me! Tell me the secret, and tell me what you want!”

Lestat felt the rage flare up again, irrational and burning, and he squeezed Louis’s flesh with the heat of it. _How dare he be so ignorant? How dare he ignore the signs?_ Lestat felt the fragile bone of his arms beneath the thin surface organ, easy enough to break at his current strength, and he saw himself doing it like a premonition in his eye with an harrowing _CRACK_ andcrying out! But as quickly as it came, the image passed, and then Lestat was glad to be rid of it.

Keep Louis restrained just like that, intact, at his mercy, and reminded of his place on the food chain. That was enough. Words would solidify. They held the true impact over pain. Louis liked pain after all, liked _starving_. And that was fine. Lestat knew another way to get what he wanted.

“Leave me be, that’s what I want! I’ve had enough of your lunacy!” so he told him. “The problem isn’t that I do not speak; it’s that you aren’t listening! I don’t torture you – you torture yourself when you childishly refuse to accept the answers I give you! But they are right there, Louis, take a look!”

Louis glowered at him. “I see nothing.”

Lestat emitted a jagged, painful sounding laugh. “Well, since you apparently need it so badly I’ll tell you something, alright, do you hear me, you wretch? You’re killing yourself twice over, and I’m through watching you do it!”

And with that Lestat pushed him to the ground. Then he promptly turned away, for he could not bear to look upon it, that beautiful face, still so human in expression, especially when plush and ruddy with blood, but sunken and cold in the eyes. That solid frame, perfect and fit, but hunched forward in pathetic agony, screaming his exhaustion. That voice, low and poignant, now high and distorted by panic.

Lestat both loved and despised it, was disgusted and aroused by it. And it tortured him that he could not have it yet. He moved to leave, heard Louis stutter, struggling to call him back, but he ignored it like he’d been ignored, kept going. And, with a gasp of swamp air, he nearly felt faint.

Worst of all, this was what he’d wanted, wasn’t it? And he knew he should’ve been utterly pleased by this development, maybe even felt something like victory . But why then did it hurt so? And why did he feel so heavy all of the sudden, pulled towards the ground? Would it still be worth it?

It seemed there was no soothing triumph to be had at a surface level, not anymore. And he wouldn’t turn towards that call again, Lestat told himself, wouldn’t even acknowledge it, for he simply could not stand the sound. At least not yet. For now all he could do was leave. Go off to muse a bit. 

And Louis, he thought, ought to be careful what he wished for.

 

[…]

 

Louis watched Lestat go through the door, out of his room, but not beyond , not passed the river and towards New Orleans like he had the night before. Instead he remained there on the floor, listening to the sound of nothing, or trying to at least, and staring at the carpet, unseeing. But seeing the dark, lonely enclosure of a cave below the Earth all the same, and hearing more than nothing. More than dripping water.

It was that bloodied bell pounding against his ribs and head again. Blasted, persistent thing. Had it not already fallen?

In any case, it was torture. He wondered again if he could ever bleed enough to silence it. If he dried out, would that lend him to quiet for good? He wanted the answer. At least he thought he did. However, that cave of his mind began to seem too vast, too open and empty to withstand. And in a daze, he gave up.

Louis crawled to his safe, familiar coffin and laid down inside. And there, he savored the lovely, silent darkness it promised, like that cave no longer being mined, even as it tormented him brutally. For in his head he would always be alone. But also never. Not like this.

As it were, even if Lestat decided not to return, he’d left too much of himself behind to ever truly be gone. Like a mirror image of him was standing there, his voice playing on the harpsichord alongside Louis’s pulse, just as his silhouette had stood on the river. The Father of it all. Even in just the short time he’d been there.      

 _He wouldn’t leave anyway,_ Louis tried to reason with himself. _There’s still something he wants from me – something he will not say._

But even so, as he lay there dozing, drifting to and from awareness, he couldn’t help but dwell on the realization that he was never roused by Lestat’s footsteps on the stairs. Not even when the light had begun seeping in and singing to him, and he was finally enveloped in that sweet nothingness. His mind kept relaying that thought – kept reminding him of his own fragility.

 _Is Lestat alive?_ he wondered. _Did he turn to ash in the sun?_ _Or has he simply left me to perish for good?_

And this time when Louis awoke it was not in a bed. 

The walls of his coffin – he recognized them immediately, unlike the previous night. Recognized the sound of his inhuman body tugging at his wasted breath. The hunger, still the image of an imp with a golden halo. Though part of him envied his past-self, who, in his starving fear, had disconnected, and discovered a different kind of ignorant bliss. Floating, like the water was finally rising, and him along with it, uninhibited.  

The lid creaked expectantly.

Curious, he touched it with the tips of his fingers. Pushed. And it answered with a resounding groan, a pained, negative sound, but did not move. So, he pushed harder. Palm flat, he tapped into that tainted well, and he pulled the water deep from below rock bottom. And he pressed against the lid with the force of it as he never had before, ready to face the darkness. To revel in candle light. 

But nothing happened. It didn’t budge. Didn’t even creak. Instead there was a heavy thud that spread throughout the entire structure. Then the pitter-patter of what sounded like rain. But no, too heavy. Not soothing and musical as rain tended to be, even at its worst. It wasn’t water. It was not even hail.

It was dirt.

Far above someone started to laugh.  

Louis’s stomach flipped, breathing hitched. He began banging on the lid with his fists, clawing pointlessly when still it did not open. And with every intake of air, the pressure on his body would increase. The walls were closing in.   

“Stop, wait! I’m still alive in here!” he cried at whoever was throwing the dirt.

The laughter grew louder and then tapered out, however. And again the sound of falling earth rushed over him, straight through his skull. Then again. And again.

“Stop! Why are you doing this?!”

The laughter returned. This time it was followed by a voice.

“What do you mean ‘why?’ I’m giving you what you wanted, aren’t I?”

Louis gasped. His hands stilled. 

“Lestat?!” 

Another laugh.

“In the flesh!” Lestat declared. “I've decided to grant you your wish!”

“No!” Louis screamed. “It’s not my wish! I take it back! Please don’t do this, Lestat!”

“Uh, uh, uh! It’s more than that, Louis!” He sounded all too amused. “You remember what I said about the old ways? Well, I’m reinstating them! I’m going to show you how merciful I’ve been until now!”  

Louis’s chest constricted, so wound up it hurt, like the muscle there might soon snap. There was something nondescript building inside him, burning the flesh of his face. And he wanted to run, but all he could do was close his eyes and rock against the walls of his prison. To uselessly shake and beg and dig at the lid until his nails broke and bled down his palms.    

“I’m sorry, Lestat! Please don’t do this!” he cried.      

“It’s too late for regrets, Louis!” but Lestat told him. “You were weak, and you need to learn your lesson!”

Louis shook his head frantically in the dark, disbelievingly. As cruel as Lestat was, how could he do such a thing? Louis had never thought him capable!

“No, no, no,” he chanted in vain. “This can’t be happening!”  

But Lestat was still laughing, and then the dirt fall picked back up. And it was loud – louder than it should’ve been – until at last it grew to a deafening static of sound that overtook Louis’s every sense. Then nothing. And he couldn’t feel anything, sans the constriction of his throat as he choked on the need to inhale when there was not any air. Then cold darkness as he’d never known it before. And finally, the sensation of falling.

Louis looked down. He saw the bottom of the well; it was rising quickly.  

…

The lid of the coffin flew across the room and landed with a clatter and crash that shattered a porcelain pitcher, broke the leg of a chair, and scuffed the wooden floor.

Louis threw himself from it, already heaving dryly, and landed on his hands and knees in the center of the room. A pink sheen clutched to his neck and forehead, and in a rush he rubbed it dry and clambered to his feet to get away from his nightmare, watching the coffin warily. But even as he wrapped his arms around himself and stared on with wide, reflective eyes, nothing happened. Only the fear, which was his creation, grew.  And he could do naught, but continue gasping for useless breath he thought he’d almost lost.

Then, with a choke that strained his throat, Louis forced himself to stop. He stilled his body, and he listened for the telltale sounds of his torturers.

Water, wind, a wilderness song played by all wildlife. Footsteps, whispers, coughing, and gagging alongside it. Breathing and swallowing, and heartbeats and the blood’s raucous rush. It was everything familiar to him, and yet so incredibly foreign. Beautiful in a way that made him feel small and monstrous, yes, for he was surrounded by the mortal world, the one that he loved, but he did not belong to. Not any longer. But this was better, right?

Only he was alone, for his sole companion in this alienation was missing. And he might never come back.

He was alone...

Louis’s breathing resumed, slowed. He turned over his hands to find the skin unstained, the nails intact, and he sighed in some relief. But it was as the first night had been, and an overwhelming thrum of energy was lingering in his body, wave after wave of it descending upon him with an inexorable force. And there was no one to interrupt the flow – no one to reach into the well and pull him up by the bucket full – no one to act as director for this divine tragedy which had become his life.     

And Louis hated it. Suddenly, to stand alone on the stage was the greatest curse.

How foolish he felt then. He’d always had a great phobia of public speaking, of plays. He could hardly stand it with company. Yet he’d expected to stand this, most heart wrenching story, completely by himself? 

He was unprepared – illiterate! He still had so many questions about the plot! There was no end in sight!

_No end... No end..._

A hot bubble of pain threatened to erupt from him. Louis lifted his hand to his mouth in an attempt to hold it in, but it was too powerful. It slipped free muffled, but obvious, a whimper like a dying animal, and it was the most mortal sound he’d made since his dying day. 

Despite himself, Louis smiled at the thought. Something slight and bitterly mirthful. Then it dissipated into a sob, and he sunk to the floor.

 _What should I do?_ he asked the imp in his head. _Should I search for him? And if I find him, should I beg for forgiveness? Should I concede to the kill after all?_ For he was thirsty still too, and too cold to move. It was lingering, building, steadily draining the well once again. _Should I wait?_

Oh. Yes, that was it. Louis would wait. Waiting was safe. Waiting was familiar. Waiting still belonged to him. Though how long he planned to do so, he was not sure. Only that it was easiest – that he would much rather sit idle and starving than make the wrong decision, than do something to worsen his situation again. And that as he continued to feed that notion, he’d begun to indulge in it too.

Nothing had ever felt quite so righteous since. He’d been wandering between spaces in mortal time, following the will to take it all in as an outsider, to revel in it. But it had brought him nothing more than contempt and a drowning desire.

Not like the empty, guilt-quenching hunger. The hunger was pure and just – blessed by God. And in that sacred feeling, the wait became bearable. The wait became rapture.

And by the third night, his mind had gone blank with panic. Then the ignorant bliss returned to him, and he only shifted his body to hide from the servants or the daylight, and it was something like the drunken stupors he’d taken to in the wake of his brother’s death, but more. All-encompassing. And similarly, he was never sure when he’d cease to wake up. Only that he was missing something… someone… and that only drinking, or in this case fasting, helped.  

Then Louis pictured Paul as an angel. Pretty, pale coloring and piety that he’d had, it was an easy image to conjure. And with it something changed.

On the fourth night he moved his coffin to the oratory.

On the fifth he stepped into that parenthetical place.

And on the sixth night, when by chance the rat ran over his foot, he grabbed it. And it was not even a thought.

It was a whim.

               

[…]

 

 _"He needs to feel the hunger pains_  
_When it storms his will will drain_  
_And then the ghost will drown in rain  
_ _if only you face what you’ve done”_

 

[…]

 

Stopping now was impossible. Lestat was a predator driven by survival, hunger, and had been downwind of it for most of the return journey. So, why would he turn back? It made the blood boil delightedly within his heart!

And what a fierce, commendable wind it was, carrying that scent, clear against the speckled, inky black sky, coming at him in short, body-shaking bursts that constantly blew the hair on and off his face. It seemed to emit from the mouth of the moon, herself, so deliberate and mystic. Even the stars danced along, twinkling brighter and more often, in time with every gust. Or so he’d like to believe.

It was a lovely, living sight of sensation, the likes of which he would never tire. Behold the mystery of the heavens that tells of our insignificance! Or some such philosophical nonsense…

To put it more simply, Lestat felt like a mortal, reborn. And he knew now was not the time for dirt, for the long sleep, if only because he’d missed this feeling too badly. Missed the sky most of all, really, and the dirt, the thought of no longer being allowed to look  upon her, that Goddess, coaxed tears from his eyes and then absorbed them as such. The ghost of every life, come and gone, could be felt in the sky after all – always changing. Yet, always present.  Like him. Like them all, who would be altered into something the same by time and Earth. Like stone, the moon, and her. And he felt somehow eased by this thought, as though in this he was at last not alone. 

But it was ironic of him to think that way, Lestat knew, for he had taken to the ground that week in the exact manner he’d instructed Louis not to. And now he was mended by the emergence. But, not unlike Louis’s being, it had been a spontaneous choice on his part, a gut instinct that turned out to be partially blessed. And it had helped him, for he had not wanted the seclusion. But would it work quite the same on Louis, who did? 

Who could say for certain? And who could say if it was worth the risk? For Lestat’s part, at least, this was merely his way of giving madness another chance. But what a chance...

Each day and each night he’d stayed there, unmoving below the earth. And he dreamt of nothing but black cats with real emeralds for eyes, their bloody little teeth, like ivory, being cleaned by rough, agile tongues that were somehow ruby encrusted. The corpse of the catch between their velvety paws: a filthy, stinking rat. And he wasn’t sure what it meant, wasn’t sure what he expected. But now that he’d emerged he felt no different, not _really_ – only more. Surer, colder. Hungrier even.

And he despised it. He almost turned back.

But he’d yet to declare his victory! And the wind seemed to agree by direction. By strength and persistence. And, encouraged by this, Lestat let out a laugh that, like a human’s, was weak and dissolved into the moving air. Then he followed it with three, louder, more full-bodied and deep, aimed at the sky as gunshots. And this time it carried with a _BANG, BANG, BANG!_ , trailing behind him as he moved headfirst into the breeze, verbal footsteps that any could heed if they cared to. Though, if they were wise they didn’t follow! They feared it!

One did not, however. Just as it had the first time, it answered him with gusto – the sweet aroma of sorrow, defeat, desperation, and blood. Oh, that savory essence of life perfectly embedded in the wind! Now more than ever he thirsted for it, that wine above all wines made up of forbidden grapes plucked by the Gods in the light of this very same moon. Tended by a mortal’s hand, but meant never to touch mortal lips.

He hated it for that too – the unfairness. But, equally, he wanted it. He felt he deserved it. And now he’d see to it that it would be offered to him freely.   

The grounds were spectacularly quiet when Lestat entered them, but a dark aura hung over the fields, like heavy fog rolling in from the swamp. And it brought with it a sense of dread a man might strain to feel, but that the animals had recognized at once. They’d scattered in its wake. Even the horses whinnied in distress, anxiously knocking against the wooden barriers of their stalls. They knew the danger in the air as they knew the eyes of a wolf.    

In testament to this warning, a shriveled rat lay at the threshold of the oratory when he came to it, its dark brown fur turned black by mud and decay and the splatter of its blood in vibrant contrast to the white stone on which it had been abandoned. Not unlike the overgrown roses lining the walls of this place.  

Lestat pushed it aside with his foot.         

And while the field was in an eerie quiet, here Louis’s presence was a symphony. A calamitous one, always had been really, no matter the time or place. But at this monument to his mortality it was the loudest, and along with the scent, it drew Lestat to him deftly, eagerly, with a veneer of desperation acting as an accent. The sound of his choking the crescendo, emphasis on a sour note intentionally tuned out of key. And in finale’s fashion, Lestat found him hauled up inside, surrounded by the corpses of animals.

He was curled in a ball against the wall. His hands and face perfumed in blood, radiating intensity and starvation. No wonder the creatures had fled.

“What are you doing in such a place?” Lestat quietly wondered, taking careful steps to avoid the little bodies lining the floor.

Louis jolted in surprise. His head snapped up, and the very moment his bloody eyes landed on Lestat a single tear fell, and he gasped.

“Lestat! You’re here?”

Lestat smiled at him solemnly. “That’s right. Did you think I wouldn’t come back?”

Louis didn’t answer. He stared at him with wide, stormy eyes, still raining. Then he swallowed thickly around nothing, and his hands tightened on the fabric of his breeches.

“Oh, Louis,” sighed Lestat.

“Where did you go?” Louis asked him, naught but a whisper.

“Somewhere to think.”

“About what?”

Lestat laughed lightly at that, inclining his head. He walked over to crouch in front of him. “Does it matter? I’ve returned to you.”

Louis blinked at him slowly. His gaze dropped to the ground, and his shoulders began to shake.

“Why?” he asked, and as he did his voice cracked. Thick streams of blood began renewing the trails left on his cheeks by their predecessors, disappearing beneath the curve of his chin. Until, with a strained wheeze he started to sob. “Why would you do this to me?”

Still smiling, Lestat lifted a curious brow. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“But you do!” Louis declared, rubbing the blood off his face even as it continued to pour. “You did it knowingly!”

Lestat hummed in contemplation at that, reaching forward to twist his finger around a lock of obsidian hair. Pulling it teasingly.

“Well, I’m here now,” he said. “Unless you’d prefer I wasn’t, that is…”

Louis blanched. In an instant he lunged at Lestat, gripping his coat with so much force he was surprised it didn’t rip. He nearly toppled them both over. And suddenly he was close to the point, closer that Lestat could ever remember him being. It made his heart sing, then break.      

“No!” Louis cried, his tears redoubled. “Please, Lestat, don’t leave me like this – not again!”

Lestat shushed him and stood them both up, wrapping an arm around Louis's waist and gripping the shirt at the small of his back. He looked him up and down, then he cleared the errant strands of hair from his face with his free hand.

“You’re beautiful when you cry…” Lestat muttered if only for himself.

His words made Louis sob harder. “Please stop this,” he choked out. “Haven’t you punished me enough?”

“Punished you?” Lestat echoed in disbelief, pulling him in to embrace. “Now, whatever would I punish you for?”

“Do not mock me.”

“I am not.”

“You are!” Louis spat.

“No, Louis,” cooed Lestat. “I wouldn’t mock you. That wouldn’t be fair. You cannot help being as you are. I knew that when I made you. And I came back, didn't I?”  

“And you knew it would turn out this way,” Louis accused. “You knew, and you did it anyway.”

Lestat scoffed and pulled back. “There you go spouting nonsense again.”  

Louis looked away.

Lestat rolled his eyes, but followed his gaze.

He was staring out the entrance, passed the threshold, off towards the fields where the sound of a fire blazing was suddenly crystal clear. Then the stomping of feet in the grass. The singing and chanting and laughing. The wind.

Lestat turned back.

Louis had stopped crying. His pupils were suddenly impossibly wide, nearly eclipsing the green iris, reflecting the darkness into which it stared. His hands had gone slack. And he was so lovely like this, needy and undignified, that Lestat had never wanted him more. Not since the moment he saw him.     

“Tell me,” he said, indulgently tracing Louis's jaw and cheek with a light brush of his fingers, smearing the blood that clung there. He was ready to give his answer. “Do you still wish to know why I chose you?”

Louis snapped out of his trance. As he looked back to Lestat he grimaced then winced, clearing the pink from his eyes. He tugged at his waistcoat once before bowing his head, so near it almost rested on Lestat's shoulder. 

After a long moment, he nodded.    

Lestat's smile was radiant warmth. “Good,” he breathed. “Then come, and I'll show you.” 

And the cold hand on Louis's back began leading him towards the house. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...what up? im back.......
> 
> i decided to split the story into 4 parts instead of 3, because it ended up being a lot longer than i anticipated (as per usual lol). so, even though you're still going to have to wait on the smut, most of the final part is going to consist of just that. plus it's already more than halfway finished, and it should be up by halloween~
> 
> anyway leave a comment if you want more sooner, because i crave that hot and sexy feedback /sneezes
> 
> (p.s., i only had time to read through this once before work, so please ignore any/all mistakes until i get the chance to really edit this part thoroughly, thnx...)


	4. Step 4: Relent

_“But the cat could be some certainty_  
_a bitten rat, the company_  
_a whole bodied catastrophe  
_ _Is ‘give or take’ enough?”_

 

[…]

 

Louis sat in a chair juxtaposing the bed and watched with dark, narrow eyes as Lestat locked the door, closed the curtains, and extinguished all but one candle which sat atop a small table to his right. He was constantly moving, needing to move it seemed, to keep busy, and he looked so innocent turning over the duvet like he was preparing to lay down for the night.

Louis dug his nails into the upholstery. By comparison, he could scarcely bring himself to breathe, let alone move. His limbs ached, chest winding tighter with ever shaky inhale. It hurt now in a mesmerizing way: a rhythm that pounded on his jugular, and a familiar one at that – his heart suspended beneath the flesh.

He wrapped his hand around it.

Something was very wrong with his body. Something beyond hunger or fear, it was a human anxiety he felt in the twitch of every limb. But more, truly existential and grim and imbedded in that cold-blooded thirst. He’d never felt this way before, or perhaps just not to this extent.

It was the reason for his doubt, Louis knew, the reason he couldn’t trust his eyes. That this wasn’t a delusion seemed so unlikely to him. Surely, Lestat had put him in his place. Surely, he was in madness beneath the earth, dreaming up some old version of reality in his panicked daze.

He should be digging himself out. But all he wanted was to lie down and satisfy that, which was the hungry rat in his chest, to reach out and touch again and be reassured.

Yet, how could he? What if it wasn’t real after all? And what if it was? He couldn’t bear such a shock.  

Regardless, his body did not agree. His legs acted against his will, propelling him from his chair and towards Lestat. But he’d moved no further than a step when that the tension-strained rope snapped devastatingly in his chest, and he stopped and hovered there with his hand up, reaching out to some invisible nothing.  

The fear was too much. It strapped his vision to the rack to be pulled at length even still. And the ground was there, but it was not. He was seeing it somewhere far off. Through that tunnel again, where the sun was rising on the other side as small and as dim as a lightning bug.

His stomach lurched. He dropped his hand. He couldn’t do it.

 _This must be another nightmare_ , Louis thought, stumbling back towards his seat. _It must be_.  

But suddenly something soft touched his hip and with it something intense; lightning struck his body! He felt it sting and burn so real against his flesh that he could picture the scar it might leave with a stunning clarity: jagged, raised lines fanning out, forming angry pink welts that shimmered like tree branches under starlit rain, stripped of their bark.

Then every extremity and vein, every muscle from his feet to his eyelids and brain tensed at once, and it was pain – real pain, not the savory, immortal kind, but like that pseudo-mortal state of being amplified times ten. And too it was electric ecstasy in that way, that thrumming nostalgia for life. That guilt. That regret.

He closed his eyes.

Behind his eyelids there was a circle of crows spinning above an endless, grey ocean. Their void coloring was a stark contrast to the sky, featureless and white, and the water was without reflection and eerily still where it did not touch the shore. But at his feet there was the steady tempo of the waves cresting, and the shuffle of a crab hiding beneath a rock in tandem with the _SHAAA…_ of the dancing beach grass in the distance.

He swore he even felt the sting of water in the air as it splattered and clung to his face off the breeze, then cooled and burned like damp, kiss-bruised lips being pulled apart. It smelled akin to an intimacy too, like the salt and the sand and the pungent aromas of the living sea. It was vivid fever dreams.  

He turned around. He’d sensed a pair of eyes on his throat, sharp, gouging like the edge of a broken shell. A stab in the sole of his foot. And suddenly the sky turned black, and Louis’s vision colored and zoomed in.

He was still there, standing in his room. But the experience had been authentic, and the touch had extended the length of his spine.

He let out an airy groan.

In answer, Lestat pulled him close. Louis’s back collided with his front, and he felt the pulse of it as he laughed contentedly on his neck. 

“You know, I stepped into town on my way here for a… bite,” Lestat whispered, a humid brush of breath that cooled quick and teasing on Louis’s sweat-lined skin. “Are you thirsty?” 

Louis’s face went warm below the eyes. He frowned and latched onto Lestat’s wrist where it had settled over his stomach. He thought about how much softer, suppler it had felt than the rats against his lips. How much simpler it had been to feed secondhand from that source, rather than through a direct line to guilt. Yet, how much less satisfying when nothing had perished by the end.      

“Yes,” he said.

Lestat chuckled lightly. His hands were moving again, delving under the hem of Louis’s shirt and using the pads of his fingers to tickle the sensitive skin just below his navel. Energized and daring as usual, Louis’s reluctant grip did little to deter him. 

“I thought as much. Weren’t you always the type to deny yourself?” he asked, his tone a bit too charming. “Even before?”

It put Louis on edge.

“I ate on a regular basis, if that’s what you mean.”    

“You know it’s not,” Lestat berated nonchalantly.

Then he thrust his hips forward for emphasis. Against Louis’s backside there was the distinct press of hot, hard flesh covered by cloth. 

He shuddered. “You’re asking if I’ve…?”  But he didn’t go on. He wasn’t even sure he knew the correct words to do so.

“Don’t worry, Louis, I won’t make you say it,” Lestat taunted. “I already know what a good little Catholic you are – _were_.”

His voice was all too giddy. He was so obviously pleased with himself that it stung Louis’s eyes to think about. He almost considered lashing out, demanding a change from him once again, but no. To what avail? Louis was too tired and too afraid to go back into that hole in the ground with no one above to dig him up. Even if it was what he deserved. Because to him it was Hell either way, but only one form was familiar.     

 “Is this really your answer?” 

Lestat drew a pattern on his chest. “Were you expecting something else?”

Louis tilted his neck to peer out the window, towards the sounds of the fire. He slowly shook his head. 

“You wanted the truth,” Lestat reminded him. “I’ve thought of nothing else since the moment I laid eyes on you.”

He had to withhold a scoff at that. It seemed as though he’d meant it as flattery, but Louis was far from thrilled.

Despite himself, he pivoted around in Lestat’s arms to look at his face. “And if I denied you, what would you have done?” He couldn’t help but stress it. He had to try to convey to Lestat the exact depths to which he needed to hear the true answer. Or else there was no hope.

“Nothing, most likely.” Lestat gave a halfhearted shrug. 

“Lestat! Honestly.”

Lestat groaned and huffed with dramatic emphasis. “Honestly, Louis! What do you take me for? Besides, it doesn’t matter, because you didn’t!” 

Louis glared at him. In his opinion inaction was similar, if not essentially the same thing, but he saw no use in pointing this out either. It would probably only spur Lestat on all the more to know, as if he hadn’t been spurred on enough.

Louis didn’t want to be a part of that. Not at all. And yet he kept on talking anyway.

“But if I were to do it now, what then? Would you leave?”

Lestat let out a pensive sigh. “Why? So you can cling to your beloved blamelessness until the next demon comes along? So you can wallow in your precious Catholic Guilt in _peace?_ ” He shook his head. “I think I’ll be staying. If there is a hell, then we’re already meant for that place regardless. What’s one more sin in the grand scheme of things?”

“But why risk it?” Louis demanded. “Does it not frighten you – the unknown? Do you never wonder ‘what if Hell is real after all’? Why would you willingly worsen your fate?”

Shockingly, his words seemed to sadden Lestat. His gaze dropped its standard fierceness, and his smile faltered with a twitch of his upper lip.

“You have an unhealthy obsession with questions,” he muttered wearily, soft, sky-colored eyes all but petting Louis’s face, “even though the answers never satisfy you.” 

“What answers?” Louis griped. “I haven’t gotten any.”

“That’s because there are none. None you’ll accept from me anyway. Your problem is your expectations – that you think there _should_ be.”

“Shouldn’t there?”

“I told you, I don’t know,” Lestat admitted. “But that’s not something for us to decide, and so it’s not worth worrying on any longer.”

Then his hand slid onto Louis’s hip, and he dug his fingers in so that the bite of his nails made him jerk away with a quiet sound of surprise – another shock.

“Rather, you should worry about the here.” But Lestat brought him back, pressing their bodies together with that conniving grin returned. “And the now.”

And Louis _was_ worried about the now, more than he’d ever been in fact. For Lestat was here, but not, and he wanted him gone, but not, and the answers were lies, but not, and this was it for him. He’d made his choice. He’d willingly succumbed to the “gift.” And now he owed something more than his life. He owed his immortal soul.  

“What good would that do me?” so he asked.

Then he unlocked his hands, which had wound up fixed on Lestat’s elbows, and he placed one on his own chest and used the other to rub his face.

“None,” Lestat agreed, already leaning in closer.    

Louis looked back to him. He felt the sagged lines of his expression as he did, as though God was in the midst of carving it at that very moment (or maybe it was Satan). He felt the way his brow turned down and his lips pursed and trembled like they had while he’d sobbed. He felt the dust on the back of his eyelids, and how his cheek muscles clenched and released when he breathed. How his throat was dry and raw, burning, closing like he was choking on steam hot enough to melt skin.

He closed his eyes to it. They’d begun to drip again.

Then came the press of Lestat’s textured lips and tongue and slick teeth on his cheek, licking and scraping off the tickle of his bloody tears. He trailed his mouth easily down the left side of Louis’s face and along the edge of his jaw, slowly making his way. Until, at last, he settled on his lips.

His kiss was deceivingly sweet, starting as a mere peck that grew progressively heavier, headier, hungrier as he parted and dove back in for more time and time again. And then his tongue tore passed the barrier of Louis’s frown, insistent and imposing. He felt the cold, wet slide of it against his own. 

It nearly brought him back in time, that sensation, Louis noted in passing, for he could not keep his thoughts quite in order. That moment was something unearthly, a twisted mirror image of a scene from not long before.

And suddenly the world rushed by in reverse; he was still starving on the sofa in peaceful agony, only drawn to Lestat’s lap by the iron on the taste of his kiss, then into his coffin, but no further.

And even as he hated the memory, he envied that version himself who had not returned the press of his lips. Who had sat still and stone-like and who had not been so easily played, even as he was pliant. Because the he of now kissed Lestat back.     

Then as the boldness of Lestat’s tongue grew, so did the boldness of his hands. And he was shucking his jacket, un-tucking Louis’s shirt, unbuttoning the top buttons of his pants, and dragging him back to the present by literally dragging his hips forward. Retaking his mouth.

Louis grabbed Lestat’s wrists and groaned in displeasure against him. He broke the kiss and looked up with what felt like pitiful eyes, in that they were drawn so heavily to the floor. But Lestat wasn’t looking back at him. His own eyes were sewed to the bed.

His hands continued to act out a story, however. One was journeying north, running opened palmed across the planes of Louis’s chest, while the other dipped slick down his spine, sliding beneath the safety of his clothes and over the curve of his backside. And Louis gasped – his fingers had slipped between...

He tried to pull away, but there was nowhere to go. He wound up even closer, flush against a solid body.  And Lestat turned his head towards him, smiling as one might smile at the antics of their favorite dog.

“Relax,” he purred. “I won’t hurt you.”

 _You already have_ , Louis wanted to say. But no.

Lestat leaned down, kissing the side of his neck. One hand moved around Louis’s torso then back again, taking over the now vacant spot at the dip of his spine, while the other became insistent. He rubbed his fingers up and down along the crease of that most intimate place, repeatedly tickling the pale virgin flesh of Louis’s hole.  

“W-wait…!” A feeble gasp. “Stop this!” 

Lestat pulled back, admiring Louis’s wrecked, morbid face without shame or pretense. 

“Whatever for?” he asked. “I thought you wanted me to stay.”

Louis had no answer prepared. He bit the inside of his cheek.

Lestat laughed. In response, he opened his mouth, letting the bottom lip hang inelegantly as he pressed in close again, his pink tongue peeking out from between snow white teeth, and his breath brushing Louis’s sensitive lips as he chased him for yet another kiss. Then the hand at his back came around, dipping into the front of his pants, and Louis groaned at the feeling of fingers wrapping around his mostly flaccid cock. Then stroking, coaxing it leisurely to agonizing attention.

His knees shook. He braced himself on Lestat’s shoulders, and he was hot beneath his touch. He was pulling Louis closer, moving him backwards step by step. And he sighed as a rush of endorphins passed through his core and took away the rest of his balance all at once.

Just like that he collapsed against a covered shoulder, and his wet lips dampened the cloth to something sheer as he thrust his hips toward the warmth of that hand, hissing at the cool press of the ring around his thumb when it swiped across the tip.      

 “Oh, God…”

Lestat laughed again.

He wanted to be noticed, Louis realized. But in all actuality he hadn’t the need. Louis couldn’t bring himself to look at him, but he was everything in that moment. He hunched over, pushing his body away from Lestat even as his bottom half leaned into his touch. And folded. And the fact of the matter was that Lestat was wasting his efforts on a match he’d already won.

Because Louis was drifting. His head was numbing, succumbing to ignorant bliss. And a name was slipping from between his lips and into Lestat’s awaiting mouth in what came as a whimpering moan.

And like a child watching his father die, he heard himself pleading, “don’t go, don’t go.”

Lestat withdrew his hands and replaced one on Louis’s chest. With a shove, he forced him back a step. The inside of Louis’s knees hit something solid and wooden, upsetting his uneven footing and sending him toppling over. He hadn’t even realized they’d moved towards the bed until he landed on it, his elbows hitting the mattress with a thud.

He looked up to find Lestat crawling over him with an increasingly voracious gleam in his eyes. Silently, he grabbed Louis by the waist and dragged them both unceremoniously up the bed. And as soon his head hit the pillow Lestat was upon him again, hands and mouth growing increasingly adamant.

He licked into Louis’s lips, hiking up his shirt and massaging the skin he found there, all while practically fucking his mouth with his tongue. But quickly as that started, Lestat ducked down and began to make his way across his body again, chewing and sucking at private, untouched patches of skin along his neck and chest and stomach. Louis shuddered against his hold with every fleeting tickle, until suddenly he paused.

Eyes trained on Louis’s face, Lestat stuck out his tongued and lavished his left nipple with a soaking wet lick, sucking on it obscenely after. 

“Uh!” Louis cried, sounding pained.

His chest thrust up towards the contact of its own accord. He gritted his teeth in shame.

Bolstered by this, Lestat’s hand continued petting down his torso, dipping back between his legs. Cupped against his palm, he rubbed Louis’s length through his clothes with the full sway of his body. And Louis sobbed and shut his eyes, clutching at the pillow with one hand while the other pressed in wavering protest against Lestat’s shoulder.

“What are… what are you doing?” he managed to choke out between breaths.

“If you don’t already know, then clearly not enough.”

“No,” Louis bit out. “I mean, what is it…” But he couldn’t get the words to form. He reached down to wrap his fingers around Lestat’s wrist, effectively impeding his caress. “What is it you plan to do?” he asked without looking up.

For one blissful moment Lestat didn’t move. His forehead creased and he appeared off-put. But then, as though it were impossible for him to remain in an acquiescent state, he jumped into action.

Instantly, Louis’s shirt was pulled over his head, and so was the rest of him stripped. It happened so fast, he hadn’t even the time to protest before already he lay there, bared to his maker. And then Lestat dropped down on his elbows above him. And leaned in close. 

“I’m going to defile you,” he whispered lowly, his warm, wet lips all but stroking Louis’s ear. His cheek. The corner of his mouth. 

Louis turned his head away and bit his lip, shifting anxiously under Lestat’s weight. His stomach was in knots. The clinging mortal in him balked at what he was doing, or rather what he was not: fighting back. And yet Lestat was just so warm. Warm and cold enough, and soft and hard enough all at the same time that suddenly Louis felt like a fool for ever wanting to flee from him. At least for that moment.

Because what was he offering if not another drunken stupor? Another dose of ignorant bliss? Another way to starve off the hunger?    

Then it donned on him, _his hair is like wheat._

When Lestat sat back up, Louis followed. He pictured a field of gold against a red and orange sunset. Like fire, it painted the world with violence, but it was beautiful – its destructive supremacy forged the power to encourage life. And Louis could practically feel the light radiating on his chest and face. It was so real that it made his skin bump and the hair on his arms stand up.

Because it _was_ real. It was Lestat. And Louis couldn’t stop himself.

He bit into his neck.

Lestat gasped and growled petulantly, but did not force him to retract. He simply allowed Louis to drink what he could stomach and fall into darkness to search for that soothing void. That something null. But instead of calming his guts, it merely stoked them further. Because Lestat’s hand was moving around him again, stabbing indignant sounds from his mouth like every pump on his erection was the impact of the knife. 

With a final gulp and groan, Louis tore away and dropped against the pillows. He watched Lestat owlishly as his hand released the sensitive flesh between his legs and slowly rose up to gather the blood from the fresh wound, which was situated just above his collarbone, rubbing it to encourage flow. Then he smiled at Louis as he used his thumb to spread the thick, tempting substance around and between the creases of his fingers, making sure they were thoroughly coated. 

Finally, Lestat’s hand dipped back out of sight. And Louis held his gaze with a determination that swiftly dissipated when he felt the tip of his finger probing him _there_ again, this time pushing resolutely in.

An awful, frail sound escaped him.

“Ah!”

But Lestat shushed him and kissed his cheek. And without a word, he finished the job.

“It's good _,_ no?” he rasped, already beginning to stroke without reticence.

Louis clamped his eyes shut.

“No.”

Lestat chuckled breathlessly. 

“Relax, _chéri_ ,” he cooed. “Whether or not the pain persists is entirely up to you.”                    

Louis didn’t respond. Before he could think to, Lestat had added a second finger. He began moving his hand in a way that had Louis fluctuating between numbness and sparks of would-be satisfaction. And there was no pain, per say. It was more of an invasive, fearful sort of sensation. But too it was edging on that familiar build up in his gut, the same one that made him wish Lestat would just hurry up and start stroking him again already. And he moaned at the thought.

“There, see?” Lestat chuckled. “That’s better.” 

Louis shook his head.

Lestat either didn’t notice or didn’t care. He was unrelenting. He kept rubbing Louis inside, flexing his fingers in precisely the right direction to make him cry his name, then backing off again, and focusing on the stretch. And through it all Louis couldn’t keep still. His hips thrust against those fingers of their own accord – Lestat had to use his other hand to pin him down when he added a third.

“Oh!” Louis gasped around it.

There was an insistent burn in the way Lestat systematically spread and twisted him open. Louis dug his heels into the mattress when the feeling refused to subside. Now it hurt. But not nearly as much as the empty feeling inside of him, the one that had begun to recede.

It was replaced by something appalling though – some physical longing that was primal and deep and did not belong to him, Louis knew. It was a human experience he should not be having. One he should have forsaken long ago. Pure consumption.  

Then Lestat withdrew, and with a final kiss to Louis’s lips, he snaked his hand beneath his back and gently encouraged him to roll over onto his stomach.

With one last meaningful look in his captor’s direction, Louis allowed himself to be manipulated. It wasn’t as if he had much of a choice. And he had to admit he preferred it this way, looking down. It was nice not to be forced to face Lestat or what he represented.

What followed was the sound of rusting fabric and the dip of the bed against Louis’s body as Lestat moved about. Then the feeling a cold hand on his thighs, spreading them apart.

He inhaled; a shiver ran up his spine and he reached for something to grip. What he found was Lestat’s other hand, which had threaded over his. He pressed Louis’s palm down into the mattress, and then his now bear chest settled on his back, keeping his shoulders in place with his weight. And there was a long moment when all Louis could hear was his own heartbeat.

Then it came – the searing, blunt pressure on his hole. Louis winced. 

Lestat was pushing inside of him.

All the air escaped his body at once, and with it a low, throaty moan. He tried to stay still, but it was a constant struggle to resist the urge to… to… _to what?_ To run from Lestat? To rut against him? He wasn’t quite sure.  He knew only that he needed to move and now. And that he could not yet. Lestat was moving both their bodies for them.

He kissed Louis where his shoulder met his neck and gave one experimental thrust forward. It dragged a sob from him; he smacked a hand over his mouth, hating the sound. But Lestat pulled it away. Then he did it again and again and again, filling Louis over and over, until at last he’d built up an earth-shaking rhythm.

The friction sent spikes through Louis’s body. Colors burst behind his eyes. His limbs went limp, and he didn’t know what to do other than lay there, supine to Lestat’s will, and allow himself to be taken.

And Lestat was fierce about it. As Louis opened up to him, his aura grew more intense, and his pace became pummeling. His fingers tightened in time with that heated, internal coil, and Louis had to cry out and flex his hand in warning before Lestat noticed his pain and relaxed his bone-crushing grip. And though he could not see his face from his current position, Louis could still feel the burn of his lustful gaze. It was evident even in the way he sporadically grunted above him – a low, self-satisfied sound in the back of his throat.

Lestat released Louis’s hand and hauled him onto his knees by his hips. The change in angle alone was enough to have Louis gasping, but then Lestat’s hand came around him, finally taking his length back into that firm, cooling grip, and that was what really got to him. It made the penetration feel like something much more than an uncertain intrusion.

Louis whimpered and pushed against it. His head spun – he was losing all sense of decency. A sound escaped him with every thrust.

“Ah, ah, ah…!”

The bed was suddenly itchy and the room, unbearably hot. In that moment he became all too aware of the feeling of Lestat’s blood trickling out of where they were connected and down his inner thigh. His face flushed humanly, and he arched his back with one particularly well-aimed hit to that bundle of nerves inside him, completely unaware of the volume of his voice. And the tension was rising in his lower stomach like water. It wouldn’t be long now.

Louis ducked his head.

“It’s close…” he whispered.

Lestat made disappointed sound.

“So soon?”

Louis didn’t dare answer. He was too busy trying to catch his breath. Lestat hadn’t let up on the stroking, and the space between his legs was beginning to ache persistently in forewarning. He tried to hold it back, but it was no use. Preternatural strength apparently only went so far. It had nothing to do with self-control.  

Lestat was the epitome of that sentiment, fucking into Louis without abandon even so. Louis could imagine the look on his face, probably pleased. It made something inside him pop.

Then Lestat’s arm pushed again his chest and forced him upright. And he bit into Louis’s shoulder.

Louis saw white. He came with a silent cry that quickly gained sound, turning to something high and whiny. There returned that distinct burning in the back of his eyes and throat, and he shook violently against Lestat’s chest. His hand came down to where he was still pumping him dry, asking for mercy by squeezing his wrist. But Lestat didn’t stop.

He rubbed Louis through his orgasm and on, prolonging it until _he_ was satisfied. And finally, Louis felt a shot of warmth deep inside him, Lestat’s hand went slack on his dick, and he lowered them both to the bed.  

The first thing Louis became aware of after the haze had dissipated was that he was lying in his own ejaculate, cold and sticky against his stomach. The second thing was that Lestat was still hovering over him, licking the wound on his shoulder that he’d made to match his own.

Then he pressed his finger into the cut, and Louis shouted and jerked away to flip onto his back. He pulled the duvet over his body with jerky, uncoordinated movements.                

Then there was nothing but silence and the soft tingling fatigue that had not yet fully evaporated from his limbs. And like this all things were amplified – all the senses boiled down to one.

Lestat rolled onto his side and picked at a loose thread on the duvet. And the sound of it was echoing. Louis caught the movement in the corner of his vision and was drawn to it. He had to force himself to focus on the ceiling instead.

It brought back the memory of perfect little buttons on a fine coat…   

“Do you understand now?” Lestat wondered, his voice soft and deep.

“I understand that I never should have asked,” Louis said.

“Is that all?”

“Yes.”  

Lestat sighed and tossed the hair off his face.

“Oh, Louis…”

That was odd. Maybe it was the aftermath affect, but Louis had never heard him sound so sincere before. He couldn’t help it. Curiosity got the better of him, and he was compelled to look. To meet those impossibly blue eyes.   

“It was because I fell in love with you,” said Lestat. “That night I found you drunk and looking for death.”

Louis’s heart thudded painfully in his chest. He shifted even further away from him on reflex. 

“That can’t be true.”

“It can be,” Lestat muttered. “It is.”

Louis felt his brow go down along with his gaze. Something hot erupted in his throat. He couldn’t quite stop the liquid truth from spilling.

“But I do not… _love_ you.” He looked back into Lestat’s eyes, one hand clutched in the thrum of apprehension. “You know that, don’t you?”

Lestat let out a full bodied laugh.

“Oh, yes, I know. But you will, Louis. Just give it time. Don’t you realize it’s already taken root?”

Louis stared silently at him.

Lestat just laughed again in response.

“Don’t show me that face – it’s true! You’ll see; no one can resist the vampire Lestat! And believe me, stronger men than you have tried!”     

 

[…]

 

 _‘No one can resist the vampire Lestat,’ huh?_ Was that really so? Was there really no one out there immune to Lestat’s so-called “charms?”

Louis wasn’t sure who the question was directed at exactly. But if the answer was an emphatic “of course not,” then he supposed he could concede to that. Or had to more like it, for he’d already done too much longing to ever claim the contrary. Not to mention changing.

Though, it was not he alone who had changed. And he wasn’t even referring to the many changes that had occurred just within the short week for which he’d been gone from this place.

_It’s a new era._

Louis felt the truth of the matter in every step he took, in the reliability of the floor beneath his feet, which did not bend or groan. And he closed the door and loitered at the entrance, having just come in for the night. But beyond the heavy, metal structure he could still feel the florescent hallway lights paling his face as he’d stood there waiting for a sound, the mossy press of the musty carpet, beige with white and gold details, through the scuffed leather of his shoes, the temperature controlled air, tuned to a sobering blast of cold on his hands and neck. It smelled of disinfectant.

He shivered, despite not having the need.

With some renewed resolved, he walked deeper into the apartment taking slow, deliberate steps that moved him to the salon, where a radio was pumping out the tones of current hits to an invisible audience.

He paused there for a moment to gaze at the minimalist décor – the pale cream-colored couches and armchairs, designed in angular, boxy shapes, the tall chrome lamp with the circular shade standing in the corner, the sleek black telephone sitting on the glass table beside a meticulously maintained orchid, and a patchouli candle burning by an open window, the flame dancing with its own reflection – and he felt a tightness in his lungs, a cresting sense of lonely dread.

Still, Louis walked on despite that harrowing feeling (or because of it perhaps), eyeing the curved, silver door handles and the imprints left by his feet on the plush carpet, which quickly sprung back into shape. He passed the kitchen, virtually untouched, and the first bathroom that was only useful for its shower, until he entered the main living area where he stopped to simply breathe.  

This was Louis’s favorite room in the loft: a large, open space with windows that spanned from floor to ceiling. It had a shelf full of books, videos, miscellaneous knick knacks, and outdated gadgets that Lestat had collected over the years, and it was always illuminated, he made sure of it. He’d even decorated the ceiling with sparkling string lights. A glamorous touch of character that shone diamond white and hung in the shape of little shimmering stars. 

With a smile aimed at the open book that he recognized as the same one he’d abandoned on that armchair exactly seven nights ago, Louis roamed the perimeter of the room, noting the childish clutter of paper and pens and magazines on the table, running his hand over a faux-fur pillow, which looked oddly out of place in this setting. Its old, rustic design leaned against the armrest of Lestat’s immaculate modern sofa.

Louis even glanced at the television where it hung across the way, no more than two fingers in depth, but taller than a man, and wide enough to nearly cover the wall. It was off, but the silence was far from settling. The black screen distorted Louis’s face back at him, the shadows where the light did not bounce properly seeming to gaunt his cheeks and elongate his jaw. Despite his sudden distaste for the artificial company the machine produced, he was nearly compelled to switch it on.

But he didn’t, of course. Instead he pressed down on the rectangular button imbedded in the wall and dimmed the lights to nothing more than a healthy glow. Then he turned to the balcony door, which had been left partially open, and watched the twinkle of life flickering off and on through it.

A world behind glass, like a precious, priceless exhibit at a museum. A means of preservation.

In a way it reminded Louis of his coffin. Although, the walls here were not quite so confining. Nor were they lined with satin. Rather, they’d been painted a matte, teal hue that verged on grey by the previous owners. And despite being stuck between them, Louis did not feel like a prisoner of anyone but himself here. After all, these days he almost always slept in a bed. 

With that thought in mind, he made a beeline for the balcony door and slid it completely open. He was hit by a gust of wind that smelled like smoke, and he stepped out into the light of the full moon, which shone directly overhead, and reveled in its bitter, lilac beams.

There was another radiance beside him however. A different source of light that was moving and warm. 

“Something on your mind?” it asked.

Louis turned his head to find Lestat standing half in a shadow a few paces to his left, peering down into the streets. He was leaning stiffly against the frosted glass railing, which was a beautiful accessory to his grandeur as it easily caught the colored city lights and skewed them on his dark clothing. Not that Lestat needed the help to look stunning. He got it anyway.

The wind was fast this far up in his luxury, top floor apartment, and it was whipping soft, golden ringlets against his shoulders and into his face. But he seemed unfazed by it; he turned to Louis with his arms crossed over his chest, his legs bent at the knee, and the railing supporting most of his weight. Too the reflection of the moon shone as a spark in the steely blue of his irises. His gaze was thick and piercing when he met him eye to eye. 

“Nothing much,” Louis assured, seating himself in a wicker chair to admire the view. “Just the past.”

Lestat grinned down at him, but it was strained and suspicious. Not a happy expression.  

“Don’t go digging up old grudges now, Beautiful One,” he warned. “We both know where that will lead.” 

 Louis sighed. “I’m not. Actually, I’m rather pleased.”

Lestat hummed a single, questioning note at that. “You don’t say…” His smirk dimmed. He uncrossed his arms. “With what?”  

Louis offered him a somnolent smile. “You.” 

For a brief moment Lestat looked startled. But he promptly saved face by turning his expression to something harder, smoother, and far more forewarning. If he had been holding sunglasses, Louis suspected now was when he’d put them on. 

“How rare,” he laughed. “Though I suppose I have been uncharacteristically well-behaved lately, haven’t I?” 

Louis didn’t know about that, but he was not inclined to argue either. Lestat hadn’t complained about much of anything recently, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t doing something dubious against his knowledge. In fact, the silence was the truly worrisome thing. His “good behavior” was limited after all, and likely completely superficial. Really, it probably only had to do with appeasing Louis into overruling his own set conditions. But at least he was putting in the effort to fake it…

Louis leaned further into his chair, resting his chin in the palm of his hand.  

“Perhaps,” he said. “Honestly, I guess you could say I’ve just always appreciated stories with decent character development in them. Whatever form that may take.”   

Lestat stared at him blankly for a long while. He seemed to be processing his words, because his demeanor became sober and unreadable. However, before long it fell into that confused little closed-mouth grin with the squinted eyes that Louis loved for its scarcity as much as its sincerity. And without a word Lestat stooped down for a kiss.

“I missed you,” he whispered, a breath on Louis’s chin before impact. 

 _Yes, character development,_ he thought. He could feel it in the vibrations of Lestat’s lips. Could hear it in the timbre of his voice. Could see it in the way his eyes flashed with something sad that Louis had once thought him incapable of. It was nothing like how it used to be. It was quiet. Nothing cyclical to torment them. Only the relatable longing of a desperate, wandering soul. 

In the lips especially though. Lestat had once kissed him without any give, without any vulnerability or candor. His body back then had been a constant force of deceit, of pressure and hard lines. And it was less of a question, more a demand when he’d come upon the feeling. Much like his insecurities and the selfish indulgence of his whims. Even now. 

But now was also a fantasy up in Lestat’s flashy, futuristic loft, surrounded by a godly view of the city. Now his lips were smooth and slick like the shiny metal furnishings in his kitchen, and they moved slowly and without purpose like the complacent, unlabored youths in the streets below, and they were soft like how the painted mouths of the women on TV always appeared to be: perfect.

And with their bodies fully aligned like this they swayed together to the electronic, heart-echoing music of the century. An intimate dance in every kiss.

It was sweet, salted, and savory all at the same time. It was the thirst, the quench, the winter, and the summer. And it was so, so refined, and yet so unchanged. For it was still made of the same sacred grapes and holy water.

But where once it had tasted just of blood, it now tasted of bloody bluntness. It thrived on the vine in a materialistic light. And the water it drank was attention.

So, Louis paid attention, because he liked the taste. He’d always liked the taste of wine as a matter of fact. Nothing had changed that. Though, from time to time the rot still lingered. And, still, he was forced to throw it back up.

“Tell me I haven’t been good,” Lestat insisted as he stood to his full height.

Louis frowned at him skeptically. “I cannot.”

“Exactly!” he proclaimed, suddenly irate. “For you on the other hand, my darling, the same could not be said! You remain the same, ever the victim and ever the hypocrite!” 

“Just what are you referring to, Lestat?”

“Your dalliances!” Lestat tossed up his hands and pointed at him accusingly. “Your addiction to abandonment! You tried to leave me again, you… you whore!” 

Louis rolled his eyes and huffed, unaffected. “I did no such thing.”

“You were gone for a full week and didn’t even bother to call! For all I knew you could’ve been dead!”

“I went to visit Armand,” Louis reminded him. “Which I explicitly recall telling you.”

Lestat scowled at him. “Mere moments before you left. Maybe.”

Louis scoffed and stood from his seat. “So, you admit that you knew?” 

“That’s not the point!” Lestat snapped, though his tone was far less heated than his words implied.

“Then what is your point, Lestat? Because it’s failed to come across,” Louis goaded, fully aware that he was fueling the proverbial fire.

“That it goes against what we agreed! You betrayed me yet again!”

Louis stared at him coolly. When he refused to acknowledge the preposterous accusation, Lestat groaned his annoyance, seemingly upset, and stalked inside. Without him having to look back or even ask, Louis knew he was expecting him to follow.

With a sigh, he did.

“This is entirely your fault! You’ve gone and put me in a mood!” Lestat was raving, pacing the room. “Making promises we both know you can’t keep!”

“Lestat…”

“Two hundred years, and still nothing has changed! Still, I’m the monster from your sad, little book and I’m the one expected to beg for your forgiveness! ” 

“Lestat.”

“But what about you – you wretched, lying ingrate – who is responsible for it all? You act as though I’m the devil behind your corruption, but what about how you corrupted me?!” 

“Lestat!” Louis walked over to him and grabbed his arm, effectively cutting off his tirade. “Let me speak!” 

Lestat turned on him sharply. There was no fire in his eyes. “What?!”

“I came back,” Louis softly reminded. 

“What?” Lestat hissed again. “So?”

“That was the promise,” Louis said. “Not that I wouldn’t go. Just that I won’t stay away. A consolation. We’ve already discussed this.”  

“Some consolation! Wasn’t that always the case?” Lestat countered.

“Perhaps,” Louis granted. “But now it’s been said.”

“It’s still not enough though, Louis! Don’t you get it? I’m running out of patience! It’s time to return the blood you owe me! Seek out only me!”  

“You know I cannot do that,” Louis berated jadedly. “You cannot ask that of me.”

Lestat glared at him. “Oh, but I can!” he declared. “And you should know better than to test me when you still have a lifetime of betrayal to pay for! Maybe I should start by acting like the monster you treat me as! Maybe I should punish you since you seem to want it so badly!” 

Louis raised a bewildered brow. How many times now had he heard some rendition of that same threat? Why now did it have such force?    

“You’re being serious?”

Lestat smiled. “Deathly.”

Louis let out a long breath, now realizing that he’d just been played. He walked over to sit on the couch, closed his eyes, leaned back into the cushions, and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Oh, God, truly? Why me?” he lamented, only half joking.

Lestat’s grin turned to something malevolent. It was all but palpable in his voice.

“Would you wish the same fate on another?” he taunted. Then he sauntered over to Louis and loomed above him menacingly. “Would you have someone else in your stead?”

Louis shook his head. “And you call me the hypocrite…”

“It’s less my fault than it is yours, you realize,” Lestat argued. “ _You_ could’ve said no.” 

“Do you mean now with this or back then?”

Lestat shrugged. With an amused breath he plopped himself down on the couch, right up against Louis’s side.

“There wasn’t really anything anyone could’ve said or done to stop you, was there?” Louis deduced. 

“Probably not,” Lestat confessed, reaching out to weave his fingers though his hair. “After all, it _was_ love at first sight. And we both know how powerless I am in the poignant face of that.”   

Louis almost laughed _in his face_. “In all these years you still haven’t managed to come up with a better excuse?”

“I never said it was a _good_ excuse, only that it was the truth,” defended Lestat. “And anyway, that’s neither here nor there, because my prediction also became the truth. You don’t deny it.”

“You keep saying that. But I have to wonder, does it still constitute a prediction if you actively manipulated fate? Or is that not simply called ‘cheating?’”  

“Oh, but you’re the only cheat I see!” Lestat laughed. “And the only liar!”

Louis narrowed his eyes. “Need we dig up the past?” he wondered. “Shall I call Armand and let him know I’ll be staying with him again, and this time indefinitely? I’m sure he’ll be thrilled. You know how much he appreciates my company.”   

“You had better watch that tongue of yours, Louis, or I might have to put you over my lap,” Lestat scolded, tugging his hair in warning. “I’m already considering it.”

He snickered around the words, but something about the way he said it was ominous. Like he intended to.

Louis almost scowled at him. He felt the sudden urge to turn away.

It was a troublesome thing. He had never much believed in love at first sight, only at first convenience, even as a vampire in love with the mortal world. And as such he’d never fully believed Lestat’s “reason” for making him what he was. He certainly didn’t think he owed him any blood, let alone his companionship, that much was a given. And this scene did nothing to convince him otherwise.

But Lestat’s so called “prediction,” which had once seemed equally impossible, was another troublesome thing in and of itself. Its accuracy complicated matters.  

And after dwelling on the memory for some time, Louis recalled thinking that night – that first, tormented night when all was said and done – that it was time to resign to his fate as Lestat’s captive – that it could be so much worse and he might as well count his blessings. Might as well stop resisting before it’s too late. And that that was all it ever was to him. It was all it ever could be.

But the notion hadn’t stuck, and as such it took many retrospective years for him to admit what he already knew:

Lestat was right, Louis had fallen for him. He wasn’t sure when the feeling took root, but it had. And as much as Lestat loved him, he loved Lestat too. His – _their_ game was a comforting habit.  

But of course it was not a sudden or particularly willful fall. It was not a story book romance that came with ease and a stamp that read, “…and they lived happily ever after.” It was no blooming bush of roses.

It was something Lestat had gradually forced upon him. It was an acquired taste – of human blood with the spice of regret, and an endless supply of corpses fertilizing the soil. And, like that thirst, it was based on a twisted and selfish, rat-like need to survive.

For Lestat may have introduced him to consumption, but it was Louis who chose to take it all in. It was Louis who had to step, fatally, into that well. And it was Louis who still hadn’t learned his lesson in the end.

He smiled wistfully.

“You’ll have to restrain me first,” he said.  

 

[…]

 

 _“Well, the ground might have thy answer,_  
_that all-absorbing gut_  
_And once there are no questions, ‘how?’_  
_once the child is six feet down_  
_waves will crest and maybe now  
_ _his bones will float back up”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy halloween!~ 
> 
> well, here we are. after 4 months of turmoil it all boils down to this... i honestly don't know what to say about it except that i hope it was worth the wait ?? ? and for me at least its been fun 
> 
> otherwise i'll just mention now that this isn't the end of this series, but i also have a much bigger vc-related project in the works that i've been collaborating on with a friend (who will remain nameless for the time being). so you can look forward to hearing more about that in the near future. 
> 
> and in the meantime i'm planning on writing some good old fashioned bdsm ;3c 
> 
> check out my blog for regular progress reports (http://lestvt.tumblr.com/)  
> & make sure to leave a comment if you "want some more"!~ 
> 
> >>j.j. has left the chat


End file.
